


Molly moves on

by MuteBanana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Awkward Conversations, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, POV Alternating, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 51,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuteBanana/pseuds/MuteBanana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly adores Sherlock but knows there's no future for them. Can a new man, David, make her happy? How will Sherlock react to this when he has to work with Molly in a case of mysteriously missing corpses?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Molly moves on has been posted on FF.net previously. It's not finished and will continue to be updated on both platforms. I just moved it here as well after finally receiving an invite :)
> 
> Of course, the main characters of this story don't belong to me but to the makers of Sherlock. Enjoy.

Molly was leaving St. Bart's. The night had already fallen and the chilled November air stung in her lungs. It was too cold, even for the time of the year; she pulled her coat closer to her body and put up her lapel. _I wonder if I'm also looking elegant and nonchalant as I'm doing this_ , she thought to herself in mid-motion. She suppressed a bitter laugh, shook her head and began walking.

Today, he had come to the lab again after he hadn't been there for almost three weeks.

She didn't even mind his absence that much, she had found to her own surprise. After all, she was able to work, think straight, and behave like a proper grown-up when he wasn't around. Molly Hooper was an intelligent woman, she knew what she expected from life and she was widely interested and also fairly interesting. Why then, couldn't she form a coherent sentence when Sherlock was around? The most offending were the looks she earned from John and Lestrade whenever they observed one of her embarrassing encounters with the dark haired detective. They pitied her! Those bastards.

This behaviour was seriously undermining her authority in the morgue. So therefore, not being around Sherlock had its positive effects. Last week, she had been able to come to a breakthrough in her research on parasites nesting in bodies found in water. Her paper on the topic was to be published in a reviewed and well-established journal. All in all, the career part of her life plan was working out just fine.

As for the private part of said plan, things were not looking brightly. On the one hand, she was, and there was no doubt about that, hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes. Despite his treatment of her; despite his arrogance; despite the fact that he was obviously less interested in sexual interactions than a teletubby!

On the other hand, she knew that this love would never be reciprocated and therefore the times in which she didn't see him gave her room to detach a bit and think about her future choices in life. After her success with the parasites, she was on an emotional high and had even thought about agreeing to David's proposition to take her out. David was the brother of her best friend Brenda. Molly had basically been growing up alongside him. He was two years older than her and had just returned from Australia, where he had been living for the last 15 years. He was good looking, tall and blonde. He had dark, warm eyes and an endearing smile. Nothing like Sherlock. Which was great! Or so she tried hard to convince herself.

*

Today, when she had just finished a report, David had called again and they had chatted away light-heartedly, he was very funny and she giggled into her phone when the door behind her was pushed open. Without a word of greeting, Sherlock had come in and had settled behind the microscope, slipping in a sample he had brought for inspection. His coat was hanging open and he had a bleeding cut on his cheek. Despite his ruffled look, his breathing was steady and he looked concentrated. She looked at him baffled and quickly told David she had to go back to work.

Before she could say anything, John entered the room. He, as well, looked rough, his jacket hanging from his shoulders, his knuckles scratched. They must have just had a bad fight. "Hello Molly", John said friendly as always (and as if the pair of them had just come in for tea and biscuits and not in the hurry of a case), "we're so sorry to disturb you. But…". "I'm sure _you_ are, John", she interrupted and, with a side-look at Sherlock, made her way to the little first aid kit that was stored under one of the desks. "Let me see your hands". As she assembled some pads and alcohol and walked over to John, she congratulated herself on being so calm around Sherlock and not jumping to his service instantly. Maybe, she was really moving on.

She started dabbing off the dirt of John's scratched hands in silence. After a few moments, Sherlock spoke for the first time. "I hope, Doctor Hooper, you have ensured that this one is not an insane, criminal psychopath." He said it calmly without looking up from the microscope.

Molly turned her head and glanced at him sideways, still holding John's bruised hands. "I beg your pardon?" She looked puzzled.

Sherlock finally raised his head, face as pale as ever, an unreadable expression on his features, and clarified "the man with whom you were on the phone as I entered. I hope you do not engage in sexual relations with a maniac intending to kill me again. That would be most unpleasant, seeing as the last one is still an ongoing matter to be dealt with."

She frowned, the now well-established feeling of guilt coming back to tie a knot in her stomach. Molly blamed herself for endangering Sherlock and John by allowing Jim to get so close to them. She shivered at the memory of the villain's hands on her cheek as he had kissed her. But she had never slept with him! And Sherlock was well aware of that fact, she had told him in an embarrassing, drunken and tearful phone call right after what had happened. He had never mentioned that call, and she pretended not to remember.

A sad and uncomfortable expression spread on her face and she felt John's hand softly touching her upper arm. He was angrily gazing at Sherlock, who didn't seem to notice and looked at Molly as if he was waiting for her to react to his statement.

"Molly, he doesn't…", John trailed off. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, of course, John", she cleared her throat, regaining an upright position and trying to remain a steady voice as she turned to Sherlock and said, "I never mentioned the name of my caller and you heard practically nothing of our conversation. Just tell me, I know you want to."

For the fraction of a second, Sherlock's eyebrows raised. He was obviously surprised at her perky reply. But quickly, his expression was plain and almost bored again. "Easy", he stated, "you were chuckling into the phone, which you were holding to your left ear (the one connected to the right half of the brain, where emotions are processed; in 83% of the phone calls I have witnessed, you held the phone to the other ear). At the same time, your right hand was entangled in your hair and touching your neck. You were leaning your head into the lower end of your phone, wanting to get as close to the recipient as possible. Additionally, your lips are of a deeply red colour, even though you are not wearing any lipstick. They have been supplied with extra blood, making them look less abnormally thin and indicating a state of arousal. But, most strikingly…", he suddenly paused, up until this point the words had come out of his mouth in one breathless stream. Molly had absentmindedly put a hand to her lips and watched him eagerly, face blushing.

He turned his head a bit and made the bones in his neck snap loudly. His white shirt shifted and she caught sight of his collarbone. How could his collarbone look sexy?

"Most strikingly," he resumed, "I have been here for several minutes, with a _bleeding_ wound on my face and you have not yet tended to it! Not to mention the lack of coffee…"

Was it Molly's imagination playing a trick on her or did these last sentences sound a bit childish? It was almost as if some wounded pride rested in the exclamations. She was not quite sure how she should react to that. So she simply nodded and said, "Fair enough." She turned to John, hoping for assistance in the matter, but he was rather intensively inspecting the patterns of the tiles on the floor.

Looking at Sherlock again, who had repositioned his head over the microscope, she started "Should I…, I mean, do you want me to…", she gestured to the first aid kit on the table. Without looking at her, he said, "No, I think I will live."

Before Molly could react to the sarcasm in his voice, Sherlock stood up, straightened his clothes and called, "John!" His friend looked up. "We're leaving. I found what I needed to know. Get yourself a nice plaster for your injuries from Doctor Hooper and then call Mycroft." With genteel steps, he made his way to the door, his companion rising to follow him. "Tell him that the Corgi was, contrary to my first belief, not poisoned but died of natural causes. And," he added with a sheepish grin, "for the sake of familiar peace, apologise for the row we caused over this enormous hat we took from the guard." John shook his head and Sherlock continued, "come on, John, you know as well as I do that the skull in the apartment will look fabulous with the black fur!"

With that, Sherlock Holmes opened the door for his friend. Molly saw John take his phone out of his jacket and begin to go through his contacts as he left the room. "Bye, Molly, thanks for your help and sorry for the disturbance", he called as he went. Sherlock turned to leave as well, but stopped in his motion and turned back to look her in the eyes, now serious again. "Do be careful with this man, Molly. There is no need for you to get hurt again." For a short moment, his eyes rested on her as they stood there, facing each other. She swallowed visibly and nodded.

Did he look concerned? No, that wasn't possible. She'd probably misread his gaze. Slightly nodding back at her, his hand shot upwards to his lapel as he prepared himself for the cold weather outside. Without another word he turned and left.

Molly had watched the spot where he had just stood for a bit, then turned to the pads and the bottle of alcohol on the table. As she rummaged to put everything away, her mobile phone beeped quietly. It was a text message from Sherlock.

_I am fairly sure he is not a criminal, though. Brenda would have noticed something._   
_\- SH_

She did not have the faintest idea how he could have known but was not surprised. There she was. Left alone after being mentally swept off her feet by the brilliant Sherlock. Again. Before she could think about their short conversation, her phone rang. It was a colleague from upstairs informing her about a body that was on its way to the morgue.

*

Now, on her way home, she found herself wondering about Sherlock again. He always seemed so straightforward. But nonetheless, his demeanour sometimes presented itself as a riddle to Molly. She had been sure that he did not care for her in the slightest. So, she could not understand why he would seem hurt when she ceased her admiring behaviour towards him. After several tries to look at the situation from different angles, she decided that this could be explained by his vanity. Sherlock obviously liked to be admired.

What was more puzzling was what he had said just before he had left the lab. It was an awkwardly private moment, since he had waited for John to leave before turning to her. Why had he said this? And why was he looking so good, almost gentle, whilst saying it?

There went her plans on moving on. And living a happy, settled life, as it were. Molly's mobile beeped again. Another text message.

_So what do you say, dinner on Friday? - David x_


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Molly lay buried deep between the covers of her oversized bed. She had just woken up of her own accord and in a few minutes her alarm was to set off. She had thought about getting a smaller bed, since this one was taking up too much space in her tiny bedroom. And, it wasn't as if she needed such a large bed, no one ever stayed here anyway… But,  _a woman can hope!_

She thought about the day before. Again. Well, still. For three weeks, she had been doing well. Everything seemed easy and she had been rather happy with her life. One encounter with Sherlock was all it took for her to get miserable. It was unfair! Wasn't love supposed to make you happy? Even unrequited love used to have some thrill and make her feel warm inside, in some way or the other. But, that could have been because she used to fall in love with nice people. People that, even though they not necessarily adored her, at least acknowledged her existence. Sherlock, on the other hand…

Sherlock was just brilliant. This astonishing mind! These absolutely breathtaking eyes! This lean body… Once again, she found herself imagining how it would feel to be embraced by his long, strong arms while inhaling his scent.

The look in his eyes, when he had turned to her before leaving the lab, forced its way back into her memory. There was something about this look. She had never seen it before. She couldn't pin it down to any emotion she knew from Sherlock (and there weren't a lot to begin with) and it made her extremely nervous.  _This has to stop! Don't begin to fantasise and start hoping for some impossible feelings Sherlock might harbour for you again…_

Quickly, Molly pulled away the sheets covering her body (she was getting a bit hot underneath them anyway) and swung her legs over the edge of her bed. Rubbing her forehead, then shaking it heavily, she banned Sherlock's face from her mind. She stared into the dark nothingness in front of her and didn't move for a while. There was also the text from David. She hadn't answered yet. It was Wednesday and she had at least another few hours before she had to reply  _something_. Her alarm beeped and a second later, her hand was on its button stopping the sound and she rose from her bed. As she made her way to the bathroom and into the shower, she hummed a bit of Wagner's 'ride of the valkyries'…

When she came out of the shower, drying her long hair with a towel, she felt better and two thoughts rushed trough her mind.  _I think I can handle this, Sherlock is not everything the world has to offer for me!_ , shortly followed by  _Bloody hell, I need to get my hair tips cut some time soon_.

*

Sherlock and John were sitting at the breakfast table together in silence. They rarely ate together, mainly because Sherlock rarely ate at all.

Sherlock looked grim, John noticed. He was not surprised. There had not been a proper case in quite a while. The consulting detective had even agreed to investigate something for his detested brother the day before. And that wasn't even a real case, but just, to quote Sherlock, "an amalgamation of over-sensible men in suits thinking that the British monarchy was about to go down because of the death of an overweight dog!" As it had turned out, of course, there was no poison to be found anywhere near the Royal Family. Sherlock was content about that, but what really pleased him was the busby now sitting on the skull on the mantelpiece.

Sherlock grabbed the paper and peered at the front page. Apparently, nothing had found his interest there so he quickly flicked through all the pages, mumbling things like "Boring… Hideously obvious… Football players should really try to stick with their own wives to prevent the papers from being polluted that much." He closed the paper again with a sigh, "Is there no one out there decent and intelligent enough to commit a series of puzzling murders?"

John was not sure if this question had been of a rhetorical nature or if he was actually supposed to give an answer to that. He forgot the thought as he noticed a weird and distant look in his friend's eyes. Sherlock suddenly was in deep thought. But about what? As he just said, there were no cases to twist one's mind about.

"What are you thinking, Sherlock?"

Only then, the taller man realised that his friend had been looking at him with raised eyebrows for a while. He looked a bit lost for a moment and then asked "What?"

"You look concerned. What are you thinking about?"

"For someone who is very keen on emphasising that the two of us are not romantically involved in any way you do behave like my significant other quite often."

"This does not answer my question." John said, unimpressed by the surly reply.

"Yes, I'm aware. It was, however, a nicer way to  _not_  let you know than merely saying ' _That's none of your business'_ , wasn't it?"

And with that, Sherlock's mobile phone rang and ended the conversation as if he had planned so. He answered and John was left to his thoughts, surprised at his friend's behaviour. It was nothing new that he was harsh; John could handle this very well by now. But, usually, he spoke his mind. The concept of hiding one's thoughts for  _any_  reason was not familiar to Sherlock. And, he had never been outright secretive about something that bothered him.

Not having overheard the phone conversation, John was fairly surprised when Sherlock put his phone on the table and, with a huge smile on his face, announced "My dear friend, we are going on a trip to Leeds."

"Blimey, I think no one has ever been this happy about the prospect of going to Leeds", John remarked.

"The good thing about Leeds is that it is missing some corpses!"

"Could you explain the good thing about Leeds in a few more words for me, please."

"I certainly can", a grin flashed on his face. The concerned look was gone. The two of them were back to their excited and rushed exchange of information. There was a case! "You've probably guessed that it was Lestrade on the phone. Apparently, bodies have gone missing from several funeral homes in Leeds. The dead had seemingly nothing in common, were of both genders and a wide range of age; causes of death all natural or by accident. Plus, all disappeared in one night and in no case there was any sign of a break in. They were about to be buried the next day. No one would have noticed that the coffins were empty (except for some thrown in stones) if there hadn't been one relative wanting to see their deceased family member for a last time. However irrational this sort of behaviour is, it ensured us a nice little mystery to solve."

John decided he would try and explain the concept of grief to Sherlock another time and went to get dressed and ready for their journey. "When do we leave?", he asked. "Train does not go until 2.34 this afternoon, but hurry nonetheless. We are going to St. Bart's before we leave for the station. I'm in a good mood and want to pick up some body parts from the morgue, the hand in the refrigerator is starting to smell". And with that, he stood up from the breakfast table and went (almost skipped) towards his bedroom.  _This man is weird_ , John thought to himself.

*

The morgue was empty when the two men entered. It was almost noon and probably everyone was having lunch. Usually (and rather obviously), Sherlock preferred not to meet anyone when 'borrowing' body parts. But today he would have liked to find Molly down there. He was excited about the mystery of the missing dead ( _Oh no, this will be a dull title of the blog entry!_ ) and would have liked to share the news with her.  _Why would I want to inform Molly Hooper about my happiness concerning this case?_ , he asked himself, surprised at his own thoughts.  _Because of her professional interest in corpses, of course,_ his rational mind was quick to answer. Yes. That was the reason.

"John, I am looking forward to Leeds. I'm sure this will be interesting. What reasons could someone have to steal so many bodies?", Sherlock said, absentmindedly holding the severed foot of a middle aged woman and flinging it through the air as his arm waved in a gesture to support the question.

John quietly giggled at the sight. "Not every ghoul is as lucky as you are, having a friend like Molly who supplies them with fresh body parts whenever they feel like cutting open some flesh."

"I would not call Molly my  _friend_ ", he felt found out after just having wished for her presence. "I do put up with her because, as you say, she ensures me access to the morgue and the lab, which is important for quick advancement in cases." The words came out a bit too defensive.

Right after Sherlock had finished his sentence, a loud crash sounded from the hallway outside the morgue. They could hear glass shattering. John quickly went to the door, wanting to find out where the noise came from and if someone got hurt. He opened it and revealed Molly Hooper, just starting to kneel on the floor to pick up the fragments of several petri dishes she had dropped a second before.

"Oh, hello Molly!", John exclaimed overly brightly.  _Oh God, I hope she has not heard that!_

"Hi John, be careful not to step into the mess. Stupid me, I have probably stacked up too many dishes to be able to walk without hitting walls", she said, still kneeling and beginning to pick up the bigger bits of shattered glass.  _Maybe she hasn't heard, then. Good._

She stood up and crossed the room, towards where Sherlock was leaning against an autopsy table. He had silently overlooked the short dialogue between the two with an empty expression on his face. Without looking at him, Molly passed him and grabbed a broom out of a small storage room that adjoined the morgue.

"Don't worry, you won't have to  _put up with me_  any longer than necessary. I will quickly clear up the mess and be gone again. Don't forget your foot", she said coldly.

 _Or maybe she has._ John shot Sherlock a very disapproving look. He did not react.

*

After they had left, Molly sat in the lab alone. A silent teardrop ran down her cheek. She shook her head and wiped it away.  _Right, that's enough now_.

Calmly, she reached into the pocket of her white lab coat and grabbed her phone. It felt like her heart was physically aching. She knew that was not possible.

_Dinner sounds great. When do you pick me up? - Molly_


	3. Chapter 3

As the train quickly passed through the grey but beautifully and intriguingly lit countryside, John looked at Sherlock. He didn't notice as he was staring out of the window. But his eyes didn't move, they were transfixed on some distant point. Obviously, he was not observing (or even enjoying) the beautiful little shacks in the small gardens that scurried away in the distance. He hadn't moved since they had passed Leicester and appeared to be in deep thought. He did that frequently when starting to investigate, but usually, after a while of thinking, he took notes or fumbled with his phone to hurriedly gather information when new ideas crossed his mind. Not this time, though. He just sat still, staring.

John had settled on his seat with a book and not minded his friend's immobility at first. But after one hour, he had started to look up often, just to make sure Sherlock was still breathing. No movement of the curled head, no edgy remark about John's concerned looks. That was new. He was studying his features with knitted brows. He looked the same way as he did when they were sitting at the breakfast table together. Something was bothering his friend and he had no idea what it was. Being his sociable and peace loving self, he decided not to enquire again but to keep the matter on the radar.

Instead, he quietly said, "Sherlock, we're almost there."

Sherlock did not move for another two minutes. Then, he suddenly turned his head towards John and nodded. A small but tormented smile on his lips.  _Sherlock has faked an emotion. He never does that to me. What is he hiding?_ John was really growing concerned now. Sherlock was absolutely not being himself. The smaller man almost forgot that he was still a bit angry with his friend because of the mean remarks about Molly in the morgue earlier. He really liked her. She was a kind and well-meaning person, despite her morbid job choice. And John had always thought that Sherlock liked her as well, even though he never showed affections towards the pathologist. That was understood. Sherlock generally did not show affections. Towards anyone. But, most of the times, he didn't seem to mind her company which, to go by Sherlock's measure, meant he liked her. His overly negative remark about Molly was just childish.  _Wait a second. Sherlock reacts like a grumpy teenager or even a stubborn 9 year old whenever things don't go the way he wants them to go. Is this his equivalent of pulling her hair in the schoolyard? He didn't get his attention and now he's punishing her?_

"You're such a git."  _But why does it bother him that much?_

"Why am I a git this time?"

"You know very well!"

"John, you're behaving like a wife again."

With that, the train became slower as it rolled into the station. The men started assembling their coats and little suitcases (they were to stay in Leeds overnight as they had to stop by four different funeral homes). Neither attempted to resume the conversation.

*

When they arrived at the first funeral home an obese man, about 50 years of age, was waiting for them in front of a large window decorated with satin and flowers. He looked nervous. His dark suite was a little too small for him. With huge eyes he greeted them and ushered them into the house, looking around the street suspiciously as he did so.

The home was located in a quiet area some miles away from the town centre. The houses around seemed normal, not shabby but also not nice.  _Immensely uninteresting_ , Sherlock noticed.

"I am sorry to rush you, but I don't want to cause a fuss. If people notice the police and too many foreigners, they start talking. The business is all I've got, you know."

"Good evening, gentlemen", a voice from a corner of the room said, "thank you very much for coming so quickly. Lestrade said you had remarkable skills and that your specialty was cases like this. I'm Sergeant Cooper and this here", he waved in the direction of the miserable looking man, "is Howard Morgan, the owner of the funeral home. No papers have been informed about this matter, but they will find out sooner or later. We don't want some hysteria happening… you know how people can be…. Missing corpses and everything… Erm, which one of you…?" The Sergeant was a short man in his early forties. He had dark, neatly cut hair with some grey starting to spread.

"That'll be me, then", Sherlock interrupted him, "let's get to the point and go through everything of importance, I'm sure your mother is already waiting for you with dinner ready." An offended and questioning look shot to the small man's features.

"Uh… what?"

"You have been divorced recently and moved in with your mother as your ex-wife stayed in your house and you had nowhere else to go. Your mother has been doing your laundry and most of the cooking for you since you moved back in. I think you might be allergic to the new washing powder; it caused a rash on your neck. Tell her to try another one. You might say that you want to get your own flat as soon as possible, but in all honesty you have no such plans." The small man shot Sherlock a quick grim look but soon smiled.

"I'm sorry, he does that." John simply stated. "My name is John Watson, I am his… erm… advisor, I guess."

"Yeah, well. It's not that I haven't been warned about him. Let's go to the next room, shall we? The bodies had been brought in here before they disappeared. They were to be buried in the morning and the coffins have to be prepared a day before. Usually flowers and stuff…" The Sergeant clearly was not comfortable with the topic.

"Good, now Mr Morgan, is it?", Sherlock asked. The owner nodded. "Could you tell me everything you remember?" They made their way to the big, carpeted room. A lot of open coffins were scattered there. "But, first of all, everybody STOP", Sherlock yelled as soon as they had entered. The other men froze immediately.

"Why do we stop?", John asked through gritted teeth, afraid to move even his jaw.

"I see that everything is still in here, presumably how you have found it as you discovered the loss of the bodies", Sherlock said, addressing the owner. Without waiting for him to agree, he went on, "that is very good. How many people have entered the room and examined the coffins since then, and who were they? Just explain everything that happened as precisely as possible." Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, taking in every bit of information he could find, cataloguing it immediately.

"Well, there was me, of course and Mrs Gilligan. She was the one who turned up in the night and wanted to see her late husband a last time. She is a friend of the family, that's why I made an exception and let her in. And…"

"How old and how tall is Mrs Gilligan?"

"She's 72, rather short, why?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "Go on, who else was here?" Still, no one moved and the other three men gazed towards Sherlock. To someone overlooking the scene, it would have seemed very puzzling, but very amusing.

"After we discovered that Ed, her husband, wasn't there, I first thought we'd opened the wrong coffin, so I looked in another one. It was also empty. I couldn't remember having so many empty coffins in this room and grew suspicious. After opening all of them, I found that about two thirds of the bodies were missing. I tried to calm down Mrs Gilligan and called the police."

"How many people from the force were in here, Sergeant?"

"Erm, I guess…"

"Don't guess."

"Right," Cooper took a moment and counted in his head. "Three. Me, a young Constable called Mitchell and a crime scene specialist, who found absolutely nothing. That's one of the things, I wanted to…"

"Yes, later. How are this Mitchell and your  _specialist_ built?" He accentuated the word dismissively.

"Mitchell is about five foot nine and a sporty type. Miss Brown is five foot two and slim with rather long legs."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's too soon after your divorce to ask her out. I'd give it another few weeks. Besides, she is not very good at her job. Has one of them been shot in the knee some time ago?"

"What? No. Why do you want to know all of this?"

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, made a big wavy gesture and looked at John with wide-open eyes that seemed to say ' _Can you believe them? Oh, people are so dull_ '.

"Don't you do the look on me, Sherlock. Just explain what this is about, will you? I kind of want to move. I think, my leg is about to cramp."

"The carpet!" Sherlock exclaimed. John started to understand but the other two men did not know what he meant.

"This is a carpet floor. The nice thing about carpets is the fact that it is easier to trace imprints on them. Your Miss Brown should have at least noticed the fact that there were too many. After the coffins had been rolled in on their carts there was some rummaging from you, Mr Morgan, presumably as you put the flowers on top of every coffin. Then, there are the prints of an old lady who isn't walking too steadily anymore, Mrs Gilligan, I suppose. She did not move around a lot. Your very small feet, Sergeant Cooper, are all over the place, as well as your Constable's and Miss Brown's. Although, she did not inspect the windows carefully. Don't bother to tell her, though. She won't find anything of interest there. They did not enter through the windows."

Cooper and Morgan stood in the room, still not daring to move their limbs, with open mouths. Both looked at the dark red of the carpet, trying to find the information Sherlock easily seemed to read off the floor.

"There are imprints of two more pairs of feet", Sherlock went on talking as he slid his phone out from inside his coat and took a few photos of the carpeted floor and the rest of the room. "One from a man, about six foot tall, shoe size nine and a half. He was shot in the knee approximately six months ago. The other, also male, is taller. At least six foot three and wears size eleven shoes."

"Pfff, well, yes, thanks. That's…. precise." Cooper managed to say.

"Yes. You can move now, by the way. That should be all for today. I'll be talking to you soon, Sergeant. Now, we need to go to our hotel where I shall think about a few things. Tomorrow, I want to see the other funeral homes. And, could you get me as much information about all of the bodies in this building as you can get? Not just the ones that have been stolen, all of them. A full picture is crucial. How old were they, what killed them, you get the idea."

Before the Sergeant could reply anything, Sherlock was out the door. John quickly bid his farewells and hurried after his friend.

"You're a show-off!" John remarked, a small smile on his face, as they got into the cab that had been waiting for them. Sherlock just nodded, grinning broadly. "This is going to be interesting. I'll have to run some ideas by you when we've arrived at the hotel. Now I need to think." With that, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, drifting off into his mind palace.

*

They hadn't spoken throughout the whole drive. Now, John was getting the suitcases out of the car and paid the cabdriver while Sherlock made his way to the door, clearly not intending to help his friend with their luggage.

"So what do you think about all this?" John inquired, breathing heavily, as he tried to keep up with the pace of the taller man (who, on top of that, did not have to carry the extra weight of the suitcases).

"Not yet. I'm still thinking. Why are you so slow?" Sherlock stopped right in front of the big door and looked around while he waited for John to catch up.

As they went through the door and made their way to the reception desk, where a young, friendly looking woman was waiting for them to come closer, John barked, "I would not be so slow if you would bother to carry your own stuff. I'm not your personal servant, you know? You  _absolutely never_  care to help me with such things."

"Your remarks are really becoming unnerving lately. For the last time, John, we are not married!" At this, the woman, who had heard them, looked at John commiseratively.

"Hello Miss. I booked two rooms, the name is Holmes", Sherlock said.

"Two? Erm,… yes of course", she said, looked onto a computer screen and nodded. "Here are your keys, Sir. The rooms are on the second floor on the left. Do you need…"

"No, thanks, that'll be all", Sherlock interrupted, taking one of the keys and finally grabbing his suitcase. Before he went towards a lift, he turned to John, "I'll talk to you later in the evening." Then he left him there with the receptionist.

As John picked up his key, she looked at him again with pitiful eyes. "They can be a handful sometimes, can't they? But, you know, no matter how badly my boyfriend and I fight, we try to never go to bed angry at one another."

"We're not…  _Jesus_ , never mind. Thanks for the keys."


	4. Chapter 4

Shortly after settling into his room, John received a text message from Sherlock telling him to stop by his room at 11 pm, he needed someone to listen to his thoughts.  _I really am just a fancy replacement for the skull, aren't I?_  John asked himself.  _He probably got himself one of me because I also make tea._

The late hour came and John stepped out of his room, into the dark hallway, to knock on his friend's door. No one answered. Weird. He knocked again, louder this time. Nothing. A little concerned, John pushed against the door to find it open and entered slowly. Ready to punch an intruder, he found Sherlock half-sitting on his bed, his head resting on his arm, sleeping. He looked so peaceful and made funny little noises when exhaling. Regretting he had to do this, John quietly walked over to the bed and shook Sherlock's shoulder slightly.

"No, I don't…. wait!... Molly!" with that, Sherlock woke suddenly, sat up straight and looked into John's surprised eyes. The smaller man jerked his head and a grin started to grow on his face. For the first time since he knew Sherlock, he looked deeply embarrassed. It seemed like he wanted to vanish immediately.

"Erm… did I just…?"

"Yup, you did!" John could not, for the love of god, conceal his delight at his companion's embarrassment.

"I didn't…, I mean. Dreams can be weird, you know. I cannot recall…."

"Look, Sherlock. You've got a choice. Either you talk to me about why you seem to have some issues with Molly or you don't. Be aware that only in the former case I will act as if this never happened," John explained calmly.

Sherlock watched him with a tormented expression. "Right," he said, "well, it is nothing grave. But, you know, usually I do not dream. And in the rare occasions in which I do so, it involves chemical reactions, notes for the violin, or possible scenarios for a perfect murder (just to let you know, so far my mind hasn't mastered this task). I never dream of humans, not alive ones. And especially not humans I know." There, he paused, seemingly without reason. John watched him silently, signalling him to continue. "Last night, though, I suddenly dreamed of Dr Molly Hooper and I don't know why. And, just now, as you witnessed, it happened again. I cannot make sense of it and that frustrates me."

"You're panicking because you dream of people you know?"

"Well, I wouldn't say 'panicking'… It bothers me a lot not to know the reason for my mind's preoccupation with Molly. It's a mystery in my own head. Therefore, I started to investigate and think about it."

"What happened in your dream?"

"Not much. I stood in a plain room. It was big and the walls were painted white. No furniture was inside. There were no doors or windows but still it was lit brightly. Molly was standing there with me, a few feet away. She looked as if she was in pain even though I could not see any obvious injuries. All of a sudden, a door appeared behind her. It opened and it was almost as if she was pulled out by something. She didn't say anything but reached out for me to help her. I tried but couldn't move. In the last moment before she was dragged out of the door she suddenly smiled at me. I felt helpless and sad but also angry. That's when I woke up." Sherlock looked at John, clearly puzzled.

"Okay. And you are sure that you cannot find some meaning in that dream?" John asked, looking unbelieving.

"Of course not, it doesn't make any logical sense."

"Well, that does prove that your otherwise flawless mind has some blank spots." John struggled. How could he put this delicately and in a way that would not unsettle nor disgruntle Sherlock? His friend watched him expectantly.

"I think, Sherlock, that you are afraid of losing Molly." The dark haired man immediately looked angry. "John, please."

"Will you hear me out? We both know that you care for Molly, even though you don't show it. You have grown to like her. But, more importantly, you have grown to like the affection she seems to harbour for you." Of course, John wouldn't be so stupid as to suggest that Sherlock also hosted affections towards the pathologist. "Plus, she has had to endure immense emotional pain when she was used by Moriarty in this cruel way. You feel responsible for that. When she wasn't as admiring as usual yesterday in the lab and you found out about this man she had been on the phone with, the possibility of her actually moving on occurred to you. You don't like change. You're afraid that Molly stops being your friend if her crush on you wears out."

Sherlock looked plain and didn't react for a while. Then, he quietly said, "well, I really do not like change that much." John's other remarks and implications were not annotated in the slightest.

"Oh, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "Molly will still be your friend when she has a boyfriend. She honestly likes you. Can't you just be happy for her starting to get something like a life? Also, you will not lose your brilliance if you let people know you care about them. Look, I'm not saying, you should storm into the morgue, grab her buttocks and take her away to Vegas." He did not add  _even though sometimes I think you may want to_. That would clearly exceed the demand for his advice. It was surprising enough that Sherlock even talked to him about it at all. Well, he  _was_  more on the listening side of this conversation. "It would suffice to just tell her that you do not, in fact, despise her. Is that too much? Will it influence your work or cause any inconvenience?" John's face had become red by now.

"I don't think so", Sherlock shyly admitted.

He grabbed his mobile again and reluctantly typed in another message. John peaked over at him, satisfied with himself. With that, the topic seemed to be out of the way for Sherlock. He walked over to where John was sitting now, holding out the photos he had taken in the funeral home.

"See that?" Naturally, John didn't. "The imprints. First of all, there were none that belong to an elderly man. Thus, it is highly unlikely that the late Ed Gilligan left his coffin on his own accord. The fear of Zombies walking the streets of Leeds is banned." Was he actually joking? "In fact, Ed Gilligan has not left his coffin at all. None of the bodies did."

"What?"

*

It had been another long working day for Molly. After Sherlock and John had left, there were five bodies brought down to the morgue. Car accident, rather ugly. She didn't have the time to think about Sherlock and his general arseness (yes, she decided, that was a word!). Also, he had said things like that often enough for her to develop some kind of shield. Of course, it hurt. But she had to admit that he was not saying things she didn't already know to be true. This last remark had just been enough to push her over the edge.  _Come to think of it I actually have to thank him some time. He helped me get on with my life today._ She felt proud of herself decided not to care about Sherlock for the time being.

Now, she was lazily lying back in her big armchair and enjoying a glass of red wine. Slowly, the familiar anxiety she always felt before first dates crept into her mind. She was really looking forward to having dinner with David but she was also still the self-conscious mousy girl she had been in eighth grade.

A beep sounded and ended her reverie. Molly looked at her phone.

_I am truly sorry. – SH_

She was not angry with Sherlock anymore. She wasn't even quite sure if she had been particularly angry right after he had said it. Angry was the wrong word. She had clearly been disappointed but that was a frequent feeling when dealing with Sherlock. Molly appreciated his apology.  _Maybe, he is human after all?,_ she thought. It was a nice gesture (and not very Sherlock), but it did not make her feel all wobbly again, as nice words from Sherlock tended to.  _Huh, interesting!_


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock and John found themselves in the third funeral home. The taller man started to believe that very specific character traits were needed to take up the profession of undertaker in Leeds. He almost couldn't tell the men in their worn suits apart.

The night before he had explained to John how the corpses had been stolen without much of a mess. They were not taken from their coffins but  _with_  their coffins. Sherlock had found that the footsteps of the two intruders showed another pattern and were impressed further into the carpet. They had been carrying something heavy on their way out. Also, he had found clear signs that the coffins they had found in the first home had not been closed and opened more than once. The screws had shown distinct patterns proving this.

"So, each coffin has been replaced with completely the same model so that not even the director of the funeral home would know they had been swapped? Why would someone make that much of an effort to steal some dead people?" John had asked.

"That's what I am also asking myself. But, this means that the people who stole the bodies probably did not have any monetary incentives. A coffin is rather expensive. Plus, they seemingly had every type at hand. They weren't taking the corpses for illegal organ trades or something similar," Sherlock had stated, "The fact that they were not taking every corpse also supports this notion. But, taking it further, I am still in the dark."

Now, the two men were standing in front of the third funeral home director in a room that looked excruciatingly like the first two 'coffin rooms'. Sherlock just cast a quick look down and nodded confidently. "The same men," he informed Sergeant Cooper who wasn't surprised and nodded.

"According to my deductions about their height, how they are built, and the injury of one of them, I would say the are quite butch types. Probably from a criminal but not a highly professionalised background. Interestingly, though, they used gloves not to leave prints and even wore full body suits. No hairs or other genetic markers are to be found. And, see, the footprints are a little rough around the edges. Even their shoes were wrapped in a protective cover."

The fourth funeral home did not hold any more information (safe from a director that looked like he could be a twin of the first one they had met). So, Sherlock and John were on a train heading south again on late Thursday evening. They spent the journey mostly in silence with one or two thrown in remarks about ill-fitting suits in the Leeds burying industry.

*

Friday afternoon. 4.42 pm. Molly had left work early today so she would not have to rush whilst showering and getting dressed. Now she was rushing into the shower anyway. There was no need to but she just could not keep calm. There were  _only_  a little more than three hours left before David would pick her up and take her out. A proper date. How long has it been since she had one? She couldn't remember.

After leaving her shower she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring into it. "I am still smelling of death, right?", she asked her reflection. It nodded in agreement. In an instant, she was back behind the blue curtains and turned on the water. She let it get as hot as she could bare it and scrubbed her arms and legs frantically. When she was done showering for a second time and wrapped in a towel, she turned to the mirror. "Better, isn't it?" Again, a nod. "You know, I bought the damn cat to not have to have crazy conversations with my own reflection and now he's always roaming the streets, probably getting a lot more action than I do. Not surprising, though." And with that, she turned her head on the sarcastic face in the mirror and put on her underwear.

She had deliberately not chosen particularly nice underwear. The tactic worked for her on first dates. Every time she was tempted to take someone home with her she would remember her panties and be embarrassed about their enormous size. Also, she had not shaved her legs very accurately. Just to make sure.

David was a really, really nice guy. But she did not want to come across as easy. If they were ever going to tell their grandchildren about their first date, she wouldn't want to have to think back to a drunken quickie in a cab (well, of course she would NEVER tell something like that to her grandchildren).

She left the bathroom still in her underwear and went into her bedroom. Searching her wardrobe for something to wear she hummed quietly.  _Now, what to wear? Not too everyday, not too special._

After an intense hour, Molly had dismissed four pairs of jeans, seven tops, three skirts and the amazing amount of nine dresses. Two of them she didn't even remember buying. The tenth dress, however, was the winner. It wasn't a pompous evening dress, neither was it too flimsy. It was of a dark purple colour without any prints, lace or other extra stuff, the hem just covering her knees. The v-neck was showing just the right amount of cleavage (the kind that a man doesn't notice if he doesn't look but that still rewards the observer when she's sitting slightly bent forward with elbows on the table).

After another half hour she had decided against any kind of jewellery and put on decent make up and a bit of her favourite perfume. Now, she was sitting on her bed, waiting, her head impressively empty.

*

Eight o'clock. Molly stood in front of her open fridge assessing the need for another mars bar when she heard the bell.  _Don't panic now! You have managed far worse situations than a date with a nice guy. Just because it has been…._ "Oh my god, don't start thinking about how long it has been."  _And don't start finishing your thoughts out loud when David is around._

She took two deep breaths and walked towards the door, pushing a button to let him into the building.  _He's in. You've got roughly 46 seconds to stop being a mess and begin being an attractive, interesting woman. Go!_

When the blonde man stood in front of her with a warm smile on his face she felt almost ready for the date. He stared at her in awe, admiring her dress and almost forgot to say something. Realising this, he coughed, looked to the floor and said, "Hello Molly, you look beautiful." It didn't sound corny, just… honest. That was when she decided that she actually could be an attractive, interesting woman.

David was not an obviously pretty but all the more handsome man. He had distinct features. Big brow ridges framed his dark brown eyes. His nose was big, but not abnormally so. His full lips opened slightly when he continued taking in her looks admiringly. They were, however, not the thing catching most of Molly's attention. As he was very tall, his rather impressively muscular shoulders dominated her sight at eye level. They looked like the perfect shoulders to lean on. She oppressed the urge to put her forehead onto the spot between his shoulders and his neck.  _Slowly, Molly. You've got a whole evening of potentially creepy actions ahead of you. Don't shoot your wad just now._

He had brought her a little present and was now shyly holding the small package out to her. "You shouldn't have…" was all she could whisper in surprise. When she removed the paper and opened the box, she couldn't believe her eyes. Inside was a thin silver necklace with a pendant she recognised as a tiny microscope. She laughed heartily at this.

"Whenever we were talking on the phone you were at work, and it seemed as if you really love what you do," David explained, "so, I thought this was a nice present when I saw it in a window." Molly looked up at him. That was so thoughtful. Her mouth was open but she couldn't say anything right away.

David was getting a bit nervous when she continued staring without speaking. "Erm, it's all right if you don't like it. You don't have to…"

"No, it's great. Thank you so much. It's just,… no one has ever put so much thought in getting me something for a first date. Could you help me put it on?" With that, she turned her back to him and brushed her long hair to the side. David took the necklace out of its box and reached around her head to position it on her neck. She felt that he was slightly trembling when he closed the clasp and a small smile crossed her face.

*

David had chosen a nice restaurant. They were sitting opposite each other and enjoyed the food, the wine and each other's company. Molly studied his features again while he was telling her about his work for the British Consulate in Melbourne. His face was still tanned. After all, he had just left the Australian summer a few weeks ago.  _Oh, he is just soooo unlike… stop it. No thinking about him now!_

"It's actually rather boring but no one believes this once they hear the sentence 'I work for the government in international relations'. Everyone immediately thinks I'm some kind of spy," he shook his head in amusement, "but no matter how boring the job, Australia is rather nice, especially as I was able to train regularly. My life just feels incomplete if I can't swim once or twice a week."

_Explains the amazing shoulders!_ , Molly thought dreamily.

A huge grin spread across David's face. "I guess it does!"

_So much for not thinking out loud when he's around…_

*

At the same time, John was standing in front of the counter in the kitchen, watching the water boiler. Two cups were waiting to be filled with tea. Sherlock stood in the middle of the living room, eyes locked on the wall, which was full of pictures from the funeral homes and scribbled notes. The blue dressing gown hang open and his light green pyjamas were showing. He was staring at the list of the missing corpses that was delivered earlier that day, in a big box alongside various folders full of data on every body. Sergeant Cooper had indeed found a respectable amount of information on them.  _That is good. Now I just need to find the solution like I usually do,_ Sherlock thought confidently. Another thought immediately seemed to answer this first one _. Why am I trying to convince myself that I will find the missing piece? I am myself; I know that I am not really concentrating enough._ He had dreamed again. The same dream, the third night in a row. Of course, he hadn't told John about this. He would just start interpreting it again and assume he harboured some peculiar  _feelings_. This wasn't what he needed right now. He needed to concentrate on this.

John had silently set their cups on the table in the living room. He knew that it wasn't a good idea to talk to Sherlock when he was in this state. So, he just sat down on the sofa to wait for his friend to erupt with some information, as he was sure he would. The detective's face looked exerted.

Sherlock had decided that it was best not to go to the morgue for a bit, at least until he figured out how to get rid of these disturbing dreams.  _This is the exact reason why I do not do this… caring. Because it takes your mind away from focussing on really important matters._  He had thought that John had a point when he told him friendships weren't going to destroy his genius. That's why he sent the text. Initially, he even thought it a good idea to prevent Molly from being mad at him. But she had  _not replied_. After thinking about what the lack of an answer could mean he took the decision of not going to visit her until she just disappeared from his mind again. But what, if he needed something from the lab? The damn hospital had a rather nice array of instruments. Plus, he had to admit that Molly was a very good pathologist. Not many …  _Wait!,_  he thought _._

"Ha! How very obvious," Sherlock said out loud. He stepped closer to the wall, eyes darting across the list of bodies. "And, …oh yes," a grin spread on his face. John had gotten up and joined him. Both now standing inches from the list, Sherlock turned his head and said, "Two things. I know why these specific bodies were taken. And, there will be more missing corpses."


	6. Chapter 6

Molly awoke with a groan to the urging sound of her alarm. She'd only slept a few hours. But, she had agreed to work the Saturday shift before she had accepted David's invitation. It was 7.30 a.m. and she had only come home at 1.15 that same (early) morning.

The two of them were forced to leave the restaurant at eleven o'clock because the staff had to close. Up until then, time had just flown. David wanted to know everything about her, her family, her friends, and her job. The things she told him seemed to fascinate him. He inhaled her funny stories about university and showed real compassion when she talked about her father and how hard his death had hit her.

When they had left the restaurant, neither felt like going home right away. David obviously wanted to spend more time with her but did not suggest going to either of their flats, clearly not wanting to push her. Instead, he suggested a nice pub not far away. A friend of his was the owner and welcomed them warmly when they arrived. Even after the pub was closed, he let them sit at the bar together while he cleared up the small kitchen. Being alone with David in the dimly lit place was enjoyably cosy.

David had proved to be a perfect gentleman and insisted on accompanying her on her way home. When the cab stopped in front of her building, David told the driver to wait for a few minutes, stepped out and moved around the vehicle to open the car door for her. Molly thought that this was a bit over the top but enjoyed the gesture nonetheless. It really felt nice to be treated like a lady for once. He walked her to the door and waited patiently until she had found the keys inside her big and messy bag. The first uncomfortable silence of the evening had followed then.

Suddenly, David had leaned towards Molly and pressed a soft kiss on her right cheek. As he moved away he said, "that was an amazing evening. Can I see you again?" She smiled up at him and nodded, "yes, you can. And also, you may…"  _Ah, there it is. Well, it was only a matter of time until Sherlock would creep his way into my thoughts again_. At least it had just been through grammar lessons. She quickly forgave herself, though, when she saw David smiling at her answer.

Back in her flat, it had taken her a while to drift of to sleep as she thought about the evening she'd just had.

Now she lay in bed cuddling with the extra pillow, one hand fiddling with the little microscope on her neck. She had forgotten to take the necklace off the night before. And, now thinking about it, she didn't feel like doing it now. Yes, she would very much like to see David again.

*

The night before, Sherlock had suddenly left John standing in front of the wall, looking puzzled, feeling as if he was part of a bad sketch comedy. He only heard his friend mutter from the hallway, already opening the door to his bedroom, "need to think of one or two things again, will tell you at breakfast tomorrow." Sometimes, living with Sherlock was a bit like a BBC crime and drama series.

The next morning, John was already waiting when Sherlock entered the room. "Slept well? Any bad dreams?", Sherlock ignored him. "Now, care to tell me about the bodies this morning?"

"Of course", Sherlock said while taking a seat and grabbing the cuppa that was waiting for him on the table. He had had the same dream again but was not going to share this with John. "As I said yesterday, I found out why some corpses were left at the funeral homes. I didn't recognise it right away because there is a rather delicious twist. All of the bodies that went missing came from the teaching hospitals. I did not find that important at first as there are not many other hospitals in Leeds and also, some of the bodies that had been left in the homes died in one of the teaching hospitals' facilities as well. But, additionally, all of them had been examined by the same pathologist after death. The same signature, see" he gestured to the list that was lying on the table between them. John nodded, trying hard not to look too strained whilst following Sherlock's logic. So far, he understood.

"His name is Max Knight. But, that was the delicious part, there were also two people that had been examined by him who were not taken by the intruders. And that is how I know that there must be other places which are also missing bodies." Sherlock watched John and waited for a kind of 'Yes, of course'-reaction. It didn't come.

"One of these days you have to start acknowledging that I do not possess the same mental abilities as you."

"Ah, well, but you do come close. See, the two were old men over 75. They already had enough of those."

"Pardon, me, what?"

"Yes, the thieves took ten men over 75. Seeing as they are planning on getting themselves a sample of the British population with a sample size of 600, they did not need more."

John's mouth stood open. "Sampling…. British population…. of dead people…?" It was too much for him, especially as Sherlock had spoken these words so casually. "And you gathered that because ten of the corpses were men over 75. They do tend to die a lot, you know?"

"Don't patronise me, John. Naturally, that isn't all. Exactly half of them were female. One sixth of them were immigrants or living in Britain in the second or third generation. If you would bother to have a look at the sociology journals I subscribe to, you would know that about 10 of the 60 million British citizens have their ethnic roots all over the commonwealth. Age distribution also fits roughly, even though they must be missing a lot of younger bodies, but they really tried to get the proportions as well as possible. The fact that they didn't bother to take more than those ten old men shows that the sample size they've chosen is 600. But, the funeral homes were only missing a total of 51 bodies. Clearly, there will be more thefts."

John was still processing all of this when he asked, "but… why? Why would someone go to those lengths? What are the bodies needed for? If you're right, this is a huge deal, …and very morbid." _Oh, what am I saying, he probably is right_.

"Well, too much data is still missing for me to figure that out. I suggest you call Sergeant Cooper now and tell him what we found out," John laughed at this.  _What 'we' found out… Sometimes, he's kind without realising it._  "Then," Sherlock continued, "I need to go to St. Bart's. Yesterday night, I conducted some further research. Molly went to medical school with this Max Knight. Perhaps, she can give me some information on him. Without any other knowledge, we must assume he has something to do with this whole business."

John shot him an interested look but didn't comment.

The night before, Sherlock had convinced himself that talking to Molly was a necessity for the case and that he could not let his personal matters interfere with his work. He had congratulated himself on his professional point of view. Now, he was looking forward to talking to Molly. In the hope she had critical information, of course.

*

It was eleven o'clock when he entered St. Bart's and headed for the lift.

Molly was sitting at a desk, staring onto the computer screen and typing a report. She was still tired after her second cup of coffee. Quietly, some classical music was coming out of the speakers next to the computer. On Saturdays, when not many people were in, she often listened to music. It helped her concentrate. Lazily she shifted in her chair and was just about to go and get another one when she saw him. She shrieked a bit as he was standing only a few feet away, looking at her. Not moving, not talking. He seemed… shy? In Sherlock's hands she could see two big paper cups with green print.

"Hello Molly," he said, "I'm sorry, if I alarmed you. I didn't want to disrupt you so I decided to wait until you're done with the report. Ride of the valkyries. Nice piece but isn't this a little unsettling and too… war ridden for you? Coffee?"

This was weird on many levels. Sherlock brought her coffee. He apologised. He didn't want to disturb her work.

"Sherlock, is something wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing is wrong, well nothing major. Someone builds himself a UK population out of dead people. I'll explain in a minute. But, apart from that, everything is all right." He still stood there, one arm outstretched, offering her a cup of coffee, a calm and friendly face. She'd seen the face before. He wanted something from her – though, he'd never put in that much effort, after all she was kind of easy to convince. Molly relaxed a bit but then started to process his words.  _A UK population out of dead people?_

Before she could ask what he meant, Sherlock spoke again. "About the other day," he took his eyes away from hers and looked to the floor.  _Now, this is definitely new. He's uncomfortable._  "Uh… did you get my text message? I, erm, I apologised, you see." An expectant look was revealed when his head came back up.

"Yes, I did."

"Ah. Good. You did not respond."

"No, I didn't."

"Oh, I wasn't sure whether you were aware. It's not typical for you not to reply to a text message."

"Yeah, well. I'm not always so predictable, Sherlock." This was weird.  _Is this how it feels to be the powerful one in a conversation?_  She almost felt sorry for him. Finally, she gave him a small smile.

"I accept your apology." She moved closer to him and took the coffee from his hand a bit roughly. It wouldn't hurt to let him hang in there for a little bit longer. After all, his behaviour had been hurtful. On one side of the paper cup, 'SHURLOCK' was written with a black marker pen. Molly giggled.

Noticing her gaze at the name, he said, "Yes, this was odd. The lady behind the counter wanted to know my name and then later shouted it through the whole place when the coffees were ready. She obviously didn't bother to listen to me when I spelt it out for her. I did understand that part, though. But, could you turn the cup? Perhaps, you can explain the other side to me." She did as he asked and there was another word, written in smaller letters, 'Cathy', and underneath some digits that clearly were the girl's phone number.

"Is that some sort of advertisement? Or, is there another procedure to get your coffee at such places? I don't go there very often and usually John catches the coffee."

"No, Sherlock, this Cathy was flirting with you. She wants you to call her and therefore put her number on the cup." Molly smiled at his unworldly enquiry.

"Well, that's not very professional of her."

"No, indeed, it isn't… Why are you here, anyway? What do you need?" It was hard for Molly to remain her cool demeanour. It was Sherlock, after all, but she had sworn to not fall for him again. But, he was so nice, for once. She quickly tried to remember David's admiring face and abstractedly touched the pendant on her neck.

Of course, Sherlock had caught sight of the new necklace on Molly the minute he had stepped into the lab. He had also seen the dark circles around her eyes indicating sleep deprivation and the unusual smile. He immediately knew she had had a date the night before but decided not to mention it to her. He did not want her to tell him about it, about the obvious fact that she'd enjoyed it. _My enquiry would make her feel uncomfortable_. And it would probably do the same to him.

Now, however, when she touched the tiny microscope, the words just escaped his mouth, "that is nice, Molly. It was thoughtful of him, fits your personality. I hope, he will be right for you." He really hoped that, he realised then. He liked it when Molly was happy. He was always making her sad and almost never brought out such a sincere smile in her. She looked at him in surprise.

"Sherlock, do you mind if I hug you?"

"Not too much, but why d…?" He was cut short; some of Molly's hair got caught up in his still open mouth. He didn't move as he was shocked by her sudden approach. When she didn't let go of his neck immediately, he slowly brought up his own hands and placed one on her left shoulder and one on the small of her back, not daring to move them or apply any sort of pressure. She smelt nice.

Molly realised what she had done and let go of him. "That was so nice of you to say. I don't know why you said it but I really appreciate your sincerity. Thank you." At that moment, Molly was confident that she could move on and still keep Sherlock in her life. Her brilliant Sherlock. Her heart wasn't pounding crazily because she had just been so close to him. She just liked his presence and… him.

"This being done, would you finally tell me about the dead people and why you are here?"

"Ah, yes of course, sorry," Sherlock was still baffled. Nevertheless, he proceeded to tell her about the case and what had happened in Leeds. He had just finished telling her about his findings from the night before and she was already sitting back in front of her computer.

"...and I thought that, since you went to medical school with Dr Knight,... can you tell me something about him? Also, could I ask you not to talk to anyone about this? It's still very delicate and I'd rather only tell the people I can trust."

"I see, very well."  _He trusts me._  "Come here, we had this one guy that started a newsletter right after all of us had left school. He neatly describes what everyone is up to. Mostly, I don't have the time to read it but I still have all of them somewhere in my email account. I'll just skip through them and search for Max. Unfortunately, I don't know him too well, sorry."

Not realising how fast the time had flown by, Sherlock looked at his watch at 1.30 in the afternoon. He was standing behind Molly, who was still scanning her newsletters, looking over her shoulder. The two had gone through most of the emails by now. Molly had told him several stories about former classmates of hers and, surprisingly, he had enjoyed even the information that was completely irrelevant for the case. Molly was different today. She spoke in coherent sentences and wasn't overly shy around him, like she normally was. He quite liked that new behaviour. He liked the funny and confident version of Molly.

When she opened the last and newest email he leaned in closer and caught her scent again. Lavender. He closed his eyes and kept leaning. When he opened them again, his head was directly next to hers. She was peering into the screen and seemingly didn't notice how close he was. When Sherlock started to scan the email as well, his eyes suddenly trailed off and locked on the pendant of her necklace again. The microscope, in contrast to the necklace itself, was unusually thick and didn't look as delicate as the silver chain. It rested nicely on her chest. Right above the point where the curves of her breasts started and formed a lovely little valley, much of which he could see from his current position.

Molly felt his dark curls tickle her cheeks and his breath on her shoulder. It was kind of nice. She didn't move so that he wouldn't shrug away.

Suddenly, the door to the lab opened and Sherlock nervously jumped back, feeling caught. Molly looked up as well and her eyes opened widely in surprise.

"David, hi, what are you doing here?"


	7. Chapter 7

Molly had stood up and walked over to where David was now standing, smiling brightly. She had a terrible feeling, caused by the mere fact that David and Sherlock were in the same room at the same time. This couldn't end well. Sherlock in the same room with  _anyone_  tended to end badly. Especially if it was someone he didn't know and who didn't know him. Didn't know how to deal with his demeanour.

"Hey, Molly! I thought I'd surprise you with lunch. Oh," he said, when he took sight of Sherlock awkwardly lingering behind Molly, inspecting the walls. The paper bag in his hand dropped slightly, "I hope I'm not interfering with some important dead-people-work you have to do?"

"Um, no, no. It's fine. It's not  _dead-people-work_ … It's just, well,… it's Sherlock. He's a… I know him from…"  _This is hard, what IS Sherlock?_

Both David and Sherlock were shooting agitated looks at her by now. So, Molly settled with, "David, that's Sherlock Holmes, he works as a consultant for the police. He was just around and decided to visit," she added when she remembered him asking her not to talk about the case with anyone. In the hope her loyalty made him a bit more controllable she continued, "Sherlock, this is David. I am sure that I don't need to include some descriptive sentence about him, as you already know everything you want to know from his shoelaces or something similarly minuscule." David raised his eyebrows. Sherlock smiled. He was surprised but also pleased with funny-Molly's remark.

„G'day, mate," David said, holding out a hand for Sherlock to grab. He looked friendly.

"G'day? Mate?" Sherlock frowned, ignoring the hand. His eyes wandered to Molly. She stared at him, her eyes begging him not to say anything. Not to comment on David, his behaviour, his very colloquial Australian phrase, his tan, his shirt that said something about cricket. She basically begged for him not to be himself for one short moment. Sherlock nodded almost undetectably.

"Hello," he finally managed to mumble. Still not taking David's hand, he at least looked at him and gave him an obviously fake smile.

_Well, that's more than I'd hoped for._

"Right, David, could you just wait here for a minute while I grab my stuff and lose the lab coat? We can go upstairs to the lounge. That'll be a nicer place to have lunch…," she looked round to Sherlock who was still staring at David, "Erm, Sherlock, thanks again for dropping by. It was… nice chatting with you. I'll catch up with you later, okay?" That was more than just a hint for him to leave now. He chose to ignore it and instead just said cheerily, "Yes of course! I'll wait here with David, so he won't feel lonely amongst the  _dead-people-stuff_. I can accompany you two on the way up, wanted to leave anyway." Grinning at her, he waited for Molly to go in the next room and tidy up her reports and get ready.  _Why are you doing this to me?_ Realising there was no way to prevent them being alone with each other she nodded and left. "I'll try to be quick, then."

The second Molly left the room, Sherlock turned to David again, finally able to let his inquisitive eyes roam over him freely. Surprisingly, the other man was the first to speak.

"So, you work with the police?"

"Yes, I do." Sherlock did not wonder why David hadn't known that. The Australian phrase, as well as the tan that couldn't have been acquired on a trip – it was too fundamental, he had been subject to strong UV for a long span of time – gave him away instantly. He was living in Australia until recently. At least five years, possibly more. That's how he had missed Sherlock's constant presence in the papers.

"Interesting," he clearly didn't mean it; he was rather looking for some way to start a conversation. "Look, mate, I kind of saw how you stared at Molly. And she was very uncomfortable right now, with us two meeting and all. I'm not mad or anything, I just don't appreciate it very much if my woman hangs out with her ex all the time. Do you get that?"

Sherlock looked round the room. Was this some sort of practical joke? He was almost waiting for John to come in and tell him that there had been hidden cameras in the folders on the desks. He had seen his roommate watch these agonising American shows more than once. On the other hand, he would have noticed cameras or any other kind of observation of the room immediately. Ergo, this had to be real. David was actually being serious.

" _Your_  woman? I doubt that she is." It had been hard enough to hold back until now, but this was just too much for Sherlock. He had to take the bait. "Also, your other observations do not exactly expose you as a master of deduction. As for me  _hanging out_  with her, do not be afraid. Although, I understand how I can be seen as a threat for alpha males like you. Apparently, I am handsome – tall, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, symmetric face, cheek bones, all that stuff." He said it matter-of-factly. "Still, I am not really one to  _hang out_. With anyone. Certainly not with Molly. My time, as well as hers, is too valuable to spend it  _hanging out_! Despite this, I see that she has chosen to pass some of her time with you. Which is puzzling, as you are working an average of 65 hours a week, I hear that women don't appreciate it if men don't have time for them. At least, your job pays well. You're trying to hide this fact. The tan lines from the Rolex you took off are fairly obvious. You have been deliberately vague about what you are doing for a living. It is not because you are ashamed, neither is it illegal. Also, you have not told her about the fact that you have an ex-girlfriend and a two-to-four year old child, most likely a son, back in Australia. And if you wish for me to keep that information to myself you should be bloody sure about your feelings towards Molly before you let her fall for you. She tends to do that quickly. If you take advantage of her kindness or hurt her in any way I will not react kindly." With a brutally serious face, he ended his tirade, deliberately not having mentioned that he was, in fact, not a former boyfriend of Molly's.

Right after Sherlock had finished, the door opened and Molly came back, now wearing a cardigan over a simple light red shirt. She had brushed her hair and refreshed her make up.

 _Oh no_ , was all her brain could manage to think when she saw the two men standing in the middle of the room, seemingly performing a staring contest. Sherlock looked completely calm. David, on the other hand, was tense, his fists clenched. A baffled and at the same time angry expression dominated his features. How often had she seen this expression? Should she ask them about their conversation? Probably not.

"Okay, I'm ready. Um, let's go?" She wasn't sure whom to address so she proposed it to a spot in the air somewhere between the men.

"Of course," said Sherlock easily.

"Yeah, let's…," came David's reply.

While the three of them entered the lift together, stood inside the lift together, exited the lift together and then crossed the main hall together, Molly felt herself being part of the most appalling silence since the one that had followed when she'd told her mother she wasn't going to be a paediatrician but a pathologist.

At last, Sherlock turned to leave them. "That's my exit," he stood in front of the clinic doors, briefly nodding towards David. Then, without Molly recognising the attempt as such, he came close to her and hugged her heartily, his arms resting on her lower back pulling her close to him. For a moment, she forgot to breath. The hug continued for an unusually long time (even by non-Sherlock standards). When he finally let go of her, he said, "Molly, don't look like we've never hugged, we did it just before David came in down in the lab." He smirked, very pleased with himself. "It was so great to see you today. Take care, will you? Let's have coffee some time soon!"  _Was that taking it too far? - No_ , he decided. With one last (very satisfied) look at David, he turned around and left them.

Quickly turning, so that David wouldn't see her fiery red cheeks, Molly directed him towards the lounge.


	8. Chapter 8

On his way home, Sherlock played everything that had just happened back in his mind. This David, surprisingly, had not been very easy to read. He seemed secretive. But, in the end, Sherlock deduced enough to be sure he was still on his top game. Plus, nobody needed to know that he had to pick the man's pocket and search his wallet to find the photo of the small boy playing cricket in a sunny park. No wonder he seemed to hold back something. Even Sherlock knew that it was just normal to detain such personal information from a future partner you do not know too well. But, then again, he appeared to want Molly enough to refer to her as  _his_  woman. Thinking back to those words of David's made Sherlock surprisingly angry.

Sherlock was walking, no cab today. It seemed like this David wasn't a  _bad_  person. _A bit dull, yes, but essentially… I just did not imagine Molly with that sort of man_. Come to think of it, he never really imagined Molly ending up with anyone. That possibility simply didn't cross his mind. He was perfectly fine with her as a single person and, at least in the past, he thought she was content. She always smiled at him; there was no reason to think she was not satisfied with her life. Odd.

_But I absolutely cannot stand him! Why? What is wrong with him? Or me? No, not me._ As unfortunate as Sherlock found it, he instantly saw that Molly liked this man. She was very lively and her cheeks had turned an attractive rosy colour when he had walked in. This was the state he usually found Molly when  _he_  entered the lab. The detective had grown to like this expression on her. So, David would probably be around for him to figure out the dislike later on. For now, he could not focus his mind on him. He had a case to work on. Molly had forwarded all of the newsletters to him and also promised to get more information on the doctor from Leeds. Thus, for the rest of the day there was not a high chance of getting bored enough to think about Molly Hooper's private life.

From what Molly had told him, Dr Max Knight was a semi talented pathologist. He had never studied very hard whilst attending medical school with Molly and only barely got his degree. He quickly moved away from London because he had married his girlfriend. She was starting her own plastic surgery clinic up north supported by her rich father who was also a doctor. His father in law had also been the one getting Max the job in the teaching hospitals in Leeds.

*

Molly and David were sat in the small lounge for employees of the hospital, both chewing on the sandwiches he had brought. She quickly decided that there was absolutely no need to talk about Sherlock, even though she could still feel his arms around her. David, on the other hand, didn't seem to share that opinion and, as Molly couldn't quite find another topic, he started, "so, this Sherlock guy, he's a bit weird. You're colleagues then?" His brows raised and Molly could see his mind working on the phrasing of the question.

_Is he jealous?- Yup! Do I like that? Who am I kidding… of course I like that! Well, Sherlock has been rather…. cuddly. He obviously didn't like David and put on that little show for him. But Sherlock doesn't like any new people, so don't get trapped into thinking you're special again, Molly! ... Why is David looking like that? Oh, right, he asked me something…_

"Well, not really colleagues. He doesn't work at the hospital and I don't work for the police,"  _and neither as a high profile babysitter like John_ …, "he doesn't officially work for them, either… but sometimes we consult on the same cases and… erm… exchange information about victims and so on. Rather boring…" She coughed slightly uncomfortably and moved around on her chair. When this explanation did not satisfy David fully, she added, "but we don't see much of each other, mostly Sherlock is doing field work."

David appeared to relax a bit after that last sentence. He decided not to mention Sherlock's protective behaviour and his suspicions about him being Molly's ex boyfriend. He had his own secrets after all. And if she wanted to talk about it, she would - sooner or later. To be honest, he didn't care very much about her past as long as she was willing to keep seeing him. Smiling, he bit into his sandwich. His free hand grabbed hers on the table and she didn't back away. Good sign!

"So, what are we doing tonight? You decide!"

Out of the blue David was planning a second date.  _Hm, I cannot really remember since when it was just understood that I'd be free tonight… but as I am…why not?_

*

When Sherlock arrived in Baker Street, John was waiting for him. He was sat in an armchair, his computer in his lap.

"Ah, there you are, Sherlock! How was the trip to your favourite pathologist?" He made it sound innocent but Sherlock knew what he meant and shot his friend an angry look.

"Stop your adolescent teasing, please. You agreed to not speak about that, remember?" Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded to tell John the few things he had found out about Max Knight.

"… but I'll have another look in the emails again and search them more systematically. There wasn't more time with this Australian beach boy invading the lab. Do you have any news from Leeds?"

John bit his lip and didn't comment on Sherlock's remark about whom he could only assume was Molly's date and started, "I told the police about your theory of other missing bodies. They've not exactly been supporting but after Lestrade had called and told them about your accuracy they agreed to search other funeral homes. They have yet to call back and tell us how their search went. On this Dr Knight: I called the hospital where he works. He hasn't shown up at work today. Also, he doesn't answer his phone. I think there is definitely something odd about him. I've let Cooper know to look out for him."

Sherlock nodded and grabbed his violin. When he started playing a theme of Dvorák's new world symphony, John knew that there was nothing he could help his friend with now. Sherlock needed to think. Alone. So, the smaller man slowly stood up from the chair, closed his laptop and walked over to the fridge. Ignoring the (more or less) fresh foot in there, he grabbed a yogurt and went to his room. He would keep searching for information on Knight's whereabouts and wait for a phone call from Sergeant Cooper. He hated it when there was nothing else to do.

*

7.30 p.m. Molly had decided she wanted to cook for David. So far, so good.  _Why exactly did this seem like a good idea this afternoon?_  She couldn't remember. She was leaning over her counter and trying to chop garlic and in the same time prevent the cooking water in the big pot from scalding the side of her arm. He would be there in half an hour and she was still in her leggings and wide jumper.  _Don't panic!_

When she had just finished chopping and turned her attention to the slippery prawns waiting to be thrown into a pan with the garlic, her phone beeped.

_When are you free for the coffee we agreed on? - SH_

_What? Are you kidding me? - Molly_

_Not my intention. So when? Please be sure to have some more information on Max Knight. And preferably on the relationship with his father in law. - SH_

She wasn't sure how to react. It had been rather obvious that Sherlock had only asked her for a coffee to annoy David. Was he actually asking her out now? No, he wasn't. But, normally he wouldn't ask when it was convenient for her to give him some information he needed. Usually, he just turned up at the morgue or called her and asked a clear question (to which he expected a clear - and short - answer). What was it about all that jovial,  _normal_  behaviour? She guessed there was some underlying 'sherlocky' reason for this and didn't question his motives further.

_I need some time to call old friends. Monday? - Molly_

_Fine. I'll be at your flat at 3 p.m. Have fun tonight and don't overcook the pasta. - SH_

Molly just shook her head and turned back to the counter.

*

Sherlock laid his phone on the kitchen table before turning his attention back to the violin.  _That's what friends do. They communicate over hot beverages. Weird. God, I'm turning into John._ He didn't really know why he had sent the text to Molly. Now, he just hoped that David would somehow take notice of the meeting.  _Mental note: Find out where antipathy stems from._ He stored the note in the mind palace for processing later on.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock had spent the rest of Saturday night flicking through the newsletters from Molly again. Every 20 minutes he stood up, paced across the room, played some tune on the violin and sat back in his armchair, redirecting his attention to the mails again.

He had only gone to bed in the early hours of Sunday morning and woken with the lingering memory of the now rather familiar dream of Molly being dragged away from him. This time, she was wearing the necklace with the microscope pendant and Sherlock recognized the man grabbing her as David. The detective got out of bed fast and quickly showered and dressed. Throwing the dark coat over his shoulders, he passed John in the kitchen. Only nodding towards him, he left his friend to have breakfast alone. Forcing himself to think about the missing bodies, and nothing else, he wandered through the streets aimlessly.

Cursing his sub consciousness, Sherlock suddenly stopped when he realised he'd turned a corner and was standing in Molly's street. He wanted to go back right away when he saw her at the other end, two Tesco bags in her hands. She was looking grim. The bags appeared to be heavy. Sherlock thought about sprinting towards her and helping with the bags before deciding against it. He quickly turned around and vanished without her having noticed him. After glancing at his watch, Sherlock smiled and quickened his pace.

_It's only 9.30 a.m. If David had stayed over she wouldn't already be up and doing what seems to be her weekly shopping_.

After five minutes he raised his arm and, as if by magic, a cab appeared immediately. Settling on the backseat contently, Sherlock ordered the driver to bring him back to Baker Street.

*

It was late afternoon when John's phone rang. Up until then he could do nothing concerning the case and was beginning to understand Sherlock's immense boredom when something wasn't progressing fast enough.

"Dr Watson, hello," said Sergeant Cooper, "I'm not one to say 'I told you so', but we didn't find inconsistencies in any other funeral home. It seems like your…  _friend_  was wrong."

John didn't like the way he pronounced 'friend' but let it slide. "Hm," he said, not convinced and trying to remember the last time Sherlock had been wrong – about anything. He couldn't recall a single instant. "And what about this Dr Knight? Did you find him yet?" he asked.

"No, unfortunately, he is still missing. His wife has no clue where he could be. Says, he isn't the type of man to stay away for so long. Says he's generally rather domestic. Colleagues weren't so mild in describing him. They use the word 'boring' instead. Does Mr Holmes have any hints concerning the men who took the bodies yet? I don't want to sound impatient… but he has been advertised as rather quick with results. And so far…"

John frowned.  _I bet you'd still be totally in the dark without his help, you git_. Sherlock interjected at this point and took the phone out of John's hand.

"Tomorrow evening I will have more information on Knight and hopefully on where to look for the rest of the bodies. Until then, look out for limping men and monitor the hospital. If Knight is part of this, he cannot be the only one. It's too much of an effort for a single – commonplace - mind," he explained. Then, he ended the call without another word and tossed John's phone back to him.

"Why tomorrow evening? Do we have some appointment that will give us access to more information?"

"I'm meeting Molly for coffee and she assured me to find out more about Max Knight and his father in law until then."

John quickly turned his head and looked Sherlock in the eyes for a while. "You are having coffee with Molly? Did I hear that right or did I imagine the sentence? And what is important about Knight's father in law?"

"You did indeed hear me. You said she is my friend and that I should treat her likewise. She will gain information concerning the case and tell me about what she found out during coffee. I like coffee and I like progressing in cases. With this arrangement, I don't have to waist much time and can do many things I like at once."  _Plus, David hates me and thinks I'm stealing her back from him._ "Do you see a problem in this approach?" John only shook his head. "As for Max Knight's father in law. The newsletters sarcastic style of writing strongly suggests that Max is very dependant on the goodwill of this man. He got the pathologist a rather well paid job he would not have gotten under normal circumstances. Very soon, the older man also got him a promotion (accompanied by a much bigger pay check)."

John didn't quite know what to make of Sherlock's sudden social aspirations. Essentially, he supported the idea of his friend starting to interact with other human beings on a casual level. But, there was something nagging him about that. It just felt so un-Sherlock! Somehow he suspected a hidden agenda in every action of the detective. Then there was this sudden obsession with Molly. The doctor really hoped that Sherlock wouldn't decide to play some cruel games with her and her feelings. In this respect she was vulnerable.

"Sherlock, please don't make Molly end it with this man just because you can and because you like to be the centre of her attention, ok?" When his roommate started to frown and opened his mouth for an answering tirade, John shushed him and added, "you don't need to explain anything or try to convince me your intentions are others. It's fine if they are. I just want to make myself clear here. It is not right to risk Molly's happiness for your vanity or to end some minor discomfort."

Sherlock looked at John for a while. Then, he just nodded slowly and turned around to grab his violin again.


	10. Chapter 10

"I'm off to Molly's, John. Don't know how long I will be," Sherlock shouted through the flat. When he was just at the stairs, he heard the door of John's bedroom fly open and his friend shouting back, "wait, 'off to Molly's'? You're having coffee at her place? Why?"

Annoyed, Sherlock answered, "You know I don't like these big corporate places. Plus, it's more confidential in the privacy of her flat."

"Well, ok. Just remember…", was all the detective heard before he closed the door and stood on the pavement in front of the house. Today was the first sunny day in weeks. Smiling towards the sky, Sherlock hailed a cab.

*

The look on David's face hadn't been one of a kind sort when Molly had told him why she couldn't meet him for coffee this afternoon. She was sorry that she had to disappoint him, the last days had been so much fun. The young pathologist had felt light-hearted, almost jaunty. She loved being adored, and adoring her he did. But, she thought, it was also very good to be away from David for a day. She knew herself too well. If she would let herself be flattered too much, she would rush things. Fall for him, head over heels. And Molly knew, from experience, that she wasn't one to handle this state of mind with grace.

The cause for this very same experience was currently four and a half minutes late for their  _coffee date_. Even though Molly was a little bit nervous about Sherlock coming round to the flat, she found that her breathing was normal and her heart wasn't pumping blood through her body as if she were in the last stages of completing a marathon – a feeling which she'd amiably begun calling 'the Sherlock syndrome'.

Molly was well prepared and determined not to interpret their meeting as anything else than casework. Several papers lay scattered on the kitchen table in front of her and she was watching the droplets of fresh coffee fall into the bowl when she heard the knock on her door. Slowly, she arose and walked towards the sound.

"Hey, Molly!" After she had opened the door, she had clear sight of a smiling Sherlock Holmes. He held out an orchid in a pot. "That's for you!"

"Come in, Sherlock. Let me get your coat. Why exactly have you brought me a plant?"

Tangling out of his coat and trying not to drop the big plant, which was blossoming in a soothing white and red mixture, he explained, "if you are invited to a social event at a friend's house you are obliged to bring something. Mostly some sort of liquor or flowers. And I thought, as this is not an evening event, I'd go with flowers." He was urging her to take the plant now, as he obviously wanted to get rid of it.

"I didn't invite you. You invited yourself. Also, this is not what I would call a social event…," Sherlock's eyes narrowed as she said it and he was beginning to look…  _disenthralled_? So, Molly quickly added, "but, erm, it's nice of you anyway, thanks. Really, I wasn't…, well, shall we sit?"  _Great, I'm stammering again_!

Putting the orchid on a side table, Molly led him through the hallway to the kitchen where the smell of fresh coffee greeted them. Two cups were already placed upon the counter and waited to be filled. Without another word, Molly made her way over and poured the black liquid into them. There was no need for her to ask how he drank his coffee, for she knew very well. When she turned on her heels with the cups in her hands, Sherlock was still standing in the middle of the room, looking slightly clueless. She looked at him closely for the first time since he'd arrived at her small flat.

His dress trousers were nicely tailored but hung a little loose – he hadn't eaten very much lately. The jacket, however, fitted perfectly and when he moved to take it off he uncovered the dark purple shirt she loved so much. It contrasted beautifully with his pale skin and was, as always, not buttoned up to the top. Sherlock saw her appreciative look and smiled inwardly. He'd chosen the shirt to get precisely this reaction and was pleased with himself for anticipating it correctly.

"You dress nicely, you know that? Makes you look fit." Immediately after briskly exclaiming the words, Molly silently choked.  _What? Why have I said that? Think before you talk, woman. Ah, well. Now it's out. No use in going crazy over it, I guess._ Having figured out how she felt about her compliment, Molly smiled at him and gestured towards the table, signalling for him to sit down.

Sherlock, who was surprised by the remark, couldn't help the smirk when he answered, "Yes, I do know that. Thank you." With a wink he sat down.  _Oh, how flirty he can be if he wants something_ , her unusually analytical brain jumped in.

"So, what do you have for me?"

Molly grabbed the papers off the table and began explaining. "Max married Jennifer Miller right after he'd finished medical school. From what my old friends say, she definitely is the boss at home. His job basically depends on the mercy of Jennifer's father, Piers. Piers Miller is a successful oncologist. Studied at Cambridge, was a professor there for a while. Then, he opened up his own research centre in Leeds. He works closely with the teaching hospitals, that's how he got Max a job. You know how it is, a lot of favours get exchanged."

Sherlock didn't know but still, he nodded.

"Apparently, Max and Piers were never very close. Everyone I've been talking to says that the old man really made it clear who the superior is. Max never spoke up."

"But your newsletters all refer to some amazing research they do together and how they are the best of friends."

"Yes, well. I guess I would also try to remain an acceptable image when I was asked to send some summary of what I've been doing to the guy who informs all of my old classmates." Actually, she wouldn't - as she'd never bothered to engage in that post-Uni gossip. "Even if it's just for the sake of familiar peace. Max' wife adores her father, her mother died when she was a child – breast cancer."

"That's an acceptable amount of information you gathered. Good, Molly." She shot him a perplexed look. "You say this Piers Miller is an oncologist with his own research centre? Quite a nice job he has."

"Oh yes. His centre even expanded two years ago – he opened up a really nice institute in York with the newest of instruments. He can afford all sorts of luxury. With his money and influence in medical circles he practically owns Max."

Sherlock's eyes lit up for a nanosecond before he spoke. "Molly, you really are quite helpful, thank you."  _Sherlock said thank you. Huh._

"Can you help me further?" Surprisingly, his face didn't look tortured like it normally did when he had to ask for someone's help.

"Of course." She smiled. "What do you need?"

"Could you get as much as you can on Piers Miller; his life but also his research and his contacts? It will be far less suspicious if a medical scientist conducts some research in the matter. Plus, I am sure that you understand much more of it than I would."

Molly was a little flattered by the compliment, and more so by the fact that he trusted her enough to seek her assistance in a case, but didn't let it get to her. She was too accustomed to this behaviour of his by now. Without any symptoms of the 'Sherlock syndrome' creeping into her demeanour, she stood up from her chair, getting herself another cup of coffee.

"So you think Piers Miller has something to do with your case?"

"I cannot be sure but I highly suspect it. Anyhow, I will need far more information until I can form my opinion. Too many variables are still missing. I think it's best not to confront him with our suspicions right away. The police also don't need to know of them immediately, they don't believe me anyway. If he's really part of the body stealing business he might make a mistake at some point. So, I must insist again that you don't tell anyone about this. "

"Sure. Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?"

"Please be careful, okay? All this secretive stuff and you not telling the police what you're about to do... If this is dangerous in any…"

"Molly, don't be ridiculous. If this was a dangerous case I would never think of implicating you in the matter." As he said it, Sherlock's eyes got a tiny bit warmer in shade and he tilted his head to the side, looking at her thoroughly. She didn't know what to say and so they sat in silence for a few moments.

Then, Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone and typed in a text message. Since the exchange of information was clearly over and Sherlock had gotten what he had come for, Molly assumed he would leave right away. She awkwardly looked round the kitchen when he didn't move and froze in an uncomfortable half-getting-up position.

"Oh, thanks, I'd love another cup of coffee," came Sherlock's reaction. "So, how was your day? Any exciting deaths?"

Too stunned to do anything else, Molly rose fully and poured Sherlock another cup beginning a story about a dead man who showed interesting patterns in a skin rush. It was actually quite easy to talk to the great Sherlock Holmes when not imprisoned by her shyness and stuttering. After all, he was just a man. A beautiful one, yes, but nonetheless... A man with interests very similar to hers, actually, and therefore nice to chat with.

*

When John's phone beeped, he instantly knew whom the message was from. It contained a single word.

_York. – SH_

John understood and clicked his way to the contacts in his phone.


	11. Chapter 11

John had called the police in Leeds again to tell them to get in touch with their colleagues in York and get warrants for all funeral homes in town. Questioning his sanity, Sergeant Cooper had asked him how he thought this would work.

„I'm sure you can find a way to make it work. You really need to be quick. We don't know how many empty coffins have been buried already. And, please try not to provoke any publicity." John was unusually harsh. He didn't like the man on the other end of the line very much.  _I do hope Sherlock is right with this!_

"That is understood, Dr Watson.  _I_ am, after all, a trained policeman," the other man replied.

"Well, good, then. Give my regards to you mother, will you?" John ended the call abruptly and settled on his chair waiting for Sherlock to return from Molly's. He didn't feel childish at all.

*

When Sherlock had arrived back home he had told John all about Piers Miller and his suspicions on his involvement.

"It is rather clear that Max Knight was involved in the bodies going missing. The leads indicate that strongly. But, everyone describing Max, from his wife to his colleagues, says he's not a very, well, adventurous person. Also, Molly told me some helpful things about him, -" at this, John looked up curiously but Sherlock continued in an unimpressed manner, "- suggesting that he does not have the nerve, and intelligence, to plan the stealing and – whatever else – of up to 600 bodies. Thus, he cannot be the head of this operation. The only person having that much power over him, as well as the resources and motives to make so many corpses disappear, would therefore be his father in law, Piers Miller. Anything else would be impossible, and if you exclude the impossible..."

"Yes, I know, Sherlock. You have mentioned it once or twice. What remains, however improbable… I get the idea! But what  _are_  his motives? What is he doing with 600 lifeless corpses stashed away somewhere?"

"There are still nine possibilities as to why he needed these bodies. I will need more data to cut it down to one," Sherlock said cheerily.

*

Later that evening, Sherlock cast one last look on the wall before leaving the room and getting his pyjamas. The collection of pictures and lists seemed messy to an uninformed observer but he saw logic in everything hanging there. It made sense just the way it was. Not completely, though. But, he had a plan. He knew very well what he would do next, how he would proceed. He revelled in this feeling. It made him whole to have a plan, to oversee the situation. He had some days of research awaiting him and the typical excitement of an unfolding mystery rushed through him. Now he would store everything away neatly in his mind palace and reboot tomorrow.

He didn't think one bit about Molly Hooper before his head hit the pillow and he fell asleep with a comfortably blank mind.

He  _woke_  in the now well-known white room with Molly a few feet away. The sad look on her face was the most haunting, night by night. Sherlock knew and didn't know at the same time that he was dreaming. It was a peculiar feeling. He felt imprisoned in this moment.

Molly settled her eyes on him, absorbing his features, his whole body. He felt almost as if  _she_ was deducing  _him_. It made him stir uncomfortably.  _Is that how I make people feel?_  An unfamiliar self-awareness crept upon him. Sherlock reached a hand out to her, not knowing his intentions. Just before he could touch her, she retreated. She looked afraid of his touch.

Then, he heard his voice without being aware of speaking. "Don't fear me, Molly. I won't hurt you."

All of a sudden he had a potted orchid in his hand.

"Now that's funny," dream-Molly began speaking. It was the first time since he had started having this dream. Molly had never said a word. "What did you expect of me today?"

"What?" Sherlock was confused. This was taking a very strange turn.

"Did you think I'd go all stuttering and admiring again? You know, it's barely your heart on a plate, Sherlock. It's a bloody plant in a pot. You had your chance. The days in which I would be out of it completely whenever you acknowledged my existence are over." She sounded mean. And disappointed. "I waited for you to get round to it. For years. I was lonely." She looked sad again when she spoke that last sentence. Sherlock felt his chest tighten at those words. He was responsible for her loneliness.

"I'm…. I'm sorry, Molly," he heard himself say. He was still holding the orchid and looked lost. "I don't suppose you can find somewhere to put this thing, anyway?"

"That's typical, Sherlock. We are, as I'm sure you already deduced with your superpower brain, in a flipping empty white room – there's no sideboard! Plus, I've basically just told you I'm finally over you and ready to move on and you still treat me like your personal butler."

"I don't want you to move on," Sherlock said plainly.

Molly's eyes widened. She looked surprised and genuinely hurt by his words. A look - he hated to admit to himself - that was rather familiar to him.

"I mean… I don't mean it like that, obviously; well perhaps… I just… I… you…" Not able to control his actions, Sherlock, suddenly realising that the orchid had conveniently vanished into thin air, stepped forward and grabbed Molly's arms, almost violently. She squeaked quietly. He looked into her eyes intensely and both of them froze for a moment. Then, he gently pressured her to walk backwards until her elbows softly hit a white wall. Sherlock's eyes never left hers when his hands wandered towards Molly's shoulders. She didn't move. With his left arm staying there, his right moved further up her neck and finally rested holding her jaw. Sherlock noted her soft skin.

He blinked and his eyes closed for a split second but when he opened them again, Molly wasn't wearing a shirt anymore. He didn't notice right away but soon felt his hand touching naked skin where there had been cloth a second earlier. Surprised, he looked at her shoulder and saw his fingers fiddle with the strap of Molly's bra. She slowly looked down her body and then back at him.

"Very classy, Sherlock Holmes," she said part angry, part amused.

"Oh, blimey," Sherlock said shyly, "I apologise." After all, it had been  _his_  brain basically stripping her. But even as he made this excuse, his eyes wandered from her shoulder to her collarbone and then further down to –

Right then, the previously non-existing door opened and in came – of course – David. He stared at them angrily and walked towards Molly with outstretched arms. She still hadn't moved. Before the blonde man reached her, Sherlock turned and, in one swift movement, punched him in the face almost casually.

At this moment, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he woke up, shaking and painfully aware of his morning  _situation_. His memories of the dream were blurred. Somehow, he only remembered a weird mixture of  _feelings_.

*

After he had showered, he was sitting at the breakfast table with John. While his roommate was currently biting into his second enormous piece of pastry, obviously enjoying it very much, Sherlock had settled for a large cup of coffee and a grumpy face.

When John's phone rang, Sherlock looked up and his previously discontented expression changed into an excited one. John accepted the call as he saw who the caller was and put it on speakerphone.

"Good morning, isn't it?" he asked, knowing that the call so early in the day could only mean one thing. "Do you have any news for us, Sergeant Cooper?"

"Well, I don't know how you gentlemen knew this, but… We're not through with every home yet, but so far we found 38 bodies in four homes to be missing."

Fully aware of the morbid character of their behaviour, Sherlock and John looked at each other and smiled broadly.


	12. Chapter 12

The rest of the day at 221B Baker Street was spent with Sherlock alternating between abusing his violin harshly and wandering about the flat, not caring for furniture or, indeed, people. Thus, John had to jump out of his way more than once when he stomped through the kitchen in deep thought whilst the blonde man was making tea or preparing himself an afternoon snack.

"You also want a sandwich?" the smaller man asked.

Sherlock turned round to face him and mumbled, "don't be ridiculous, John!" He was currently standing in the middle of the living room. He hadn't bothered getting fully dressed so he was just wearing his pyjamas bottoms and a plain white t-shirt he had nicked from John's dresser; it was absurdly short and turned into a kind of a belly top whenever he stretched too much – a fact Sherlock was completely oblivious to. To top off his 'style', a new dressing gown hang loosely around his shoulders, swinging dramatically whenever the detective moved abruptly, and his hair was clearly showing a need to be combed.

He made his way to the laptop resting on the coffee table to check his emails for the third time in half an hour. Even though the number of possible case scenarios had reduced from nine to seven by now, Sherlock needed more data to proceed.

"Lestrade would have gotten me the information on the new bodies by now," he said grimly.

"Thank you very much, Sherlock, for not only conveying your impatience via your words and your tone but also portraying it in your facial expressions and body language. You always try so hard to make deducing your emotions easier for the plebs." His fidgety roommate was testing John's nerves.

Sherlock did not dignify this with an answer and instead moved closer to the body lists on his wall. He knew the names by heart. Knew every feature to do with their deaths and most of their lives. Rather a lot of them had died of cancer. He had found that very early on. In general, a lot of people die of cancer, especially the ones who die in hospital. Still, this had been a big factor in his suspicions towards Piers Miller. But there were also the many accidental deaths and the deaths from other illnesses. How did they fit in? He just needed more data.

*

Late in the afternoon of that same day, Sergeant Cooper finally called again. He let the two men know that the police had found an overall of 67 bodies to be missing in York. They were doing their best to come up with some stories to tell to the relatives as to why the funerals needed to be postponed.

"I doubt that the people will go along with the cemetery's staff suffering from abdominal influenza for very long, though," Cooper informed them.

"Yes, yes, of course. We don't want to cause you any inconvenience," Sherlock replied bittersweetly. "We're doing our best, as long as you get us the bloody information we require."

"It's on its way as we speak. I sent a package with the complete files on every corpse per express mail. I'll send a summary via email as soon as we'll hang up."

"Oh, in that case-," Sherlock hung up.

"John, I hope you don't have one of those dreary dates with Destiny, or whatever stripper's name she has again, within the next days. We'll be spending a lot of time going through these files."

The blonde doctor frowned and quietly mumbled, "her name's Cherry."

Before Sherlock could tell him that a) he didn't care, and b) this name was way worse than Destiny, his phone rang again. Pursing his lips at the thought of this Cooper man calling again, the dark haired detective looked at his screen. His expression changed when he read the name of the caller. It wasn't Cooper.

"Hello," he said cheerily and then listened to what the caller had to say. He nodded a few times and muttered some affirmatives. After about a minute, he frowned. John was watching his friend the whole time, an uneasy look on his face.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Sherlock spoke his first full sentence. And then, after listening a bit more, "no, but… yes, it's probably not dangerous but you…," the annoyance of obviously being cut off was easy to read for John.

"Fine, I see that I cannot convince you otherwise. You'll just have to do it then. But, you must be aware that I'll have to be there, too," the caller had something to say to this. "No, of course not - I will find a way. Good, then. Have a nice evening and," Sherlock paused, "thank you."

"Now if that wasn't the girl of your dreams," John said with a grin, "what's new?" His funny grin turned into a self-satisfied one when Sherlock's demeanour told him that he was right in assuming that the caller had been Molly.

"She's gathered more information on Piers Miller - his research, his partners, co-authors and so on. Miller's main field of research is the evolution of cancer cells as well as several drugs hoped to slow the growth of tumours. Molly seems to be way better connected with the medical elite in this country than I'd previously thought. Apparently, she has published with a lot of people, conveniently also in the field of cancer research."

"Huh. Well, I never knew… but you know what they say: Still waters…," he trailed off. No, Sherlock didn't know what they said. He wasn't listening to John either. He had already moved towards his laptop again to check his emails for the one Molly had announced just now.

"And what was it you - unsuccessfully – tried to convince her not to do?"

Sherlock was already scanning the contents of Molly's email when he looked up. "This weekend a conference on innovative new medication for cancer patients will take place in London. And, as a leading researcher, Piers Miller will attend. Molly has got herself on the participant's list."

"So, why don't you want her to go, then? That sounds like a very good opportunity to find out more about him. You love face-to-face deducing."

"Yes, but my going there does by no means depend on Molly's appearance. I could have gotten in anyway. I'll probably do the catering this time, haven't done that in a while – so much more convenient than the cleaner's job I once had to do... But, Molly - you have seen her in social situations, right? She's not the born charmer and in no way subtle. Piers Miller cannot find out we're on to him."

_Well, I have also seen_ you _in social situations_ , John thought to himself. He didn't say anything about it, though, and just told his friend that Molly would probably do just fine. After all, this was her area of expertise for once.

With a small forced nod, Sherlock settled to turn his attention completely to his laptop and thus ended the conversation abruptly. At least he had a lot to do now. Several emails from Cooper had been received as well. These and Molly's gave him a lot to think about, so he didn't worry too much about the knock on Molly's door he had clearly heard before their call had ended just now. He knew all too well who it must have been.

That new  _feeling_  crept into his stomach again. So far, he hadn't clearly identified it. It was a mixture of being hungry (he did have faint memories of 'being hungry' and at least suspected it to be similar to this sensation) and the feeling you have immediately after two consecutive rollercoaster rides (something he had only done once, for a case of course…). Not being clear about the exact nature and meaning of the feeling, he was explicitly aware that it was an unpleasant one. And, there was this nameless dislike of David again. He just wanted him to go away and let Molly's life continue the way it had been before he arrived and messed everything up. But then, Sherlock remembered John's warning words. It really was not right of him to interfere with Molly's sentiments this much. If he would drive the other man away cruelly, he would most definitely hurt her feelings.  _And I do not want to do that._ Still, there could not be any harm in observing the matter further and keeping an eye on him.

Shaking the thoughts away, Sherlock pulled his legs closer to his body on the big armchair and resumed his study of the newly arrived data.

*

Molly had been very tired. She had worked long shifts for the last two days and in her spare time she had done research for Sherlock's case. But, she was happy to help him. And proud that she obviously succeeded in doing so. She quite liked the 'thrill' of a case and could very well understand why John let himself be dragged to crime scenes by his roommate. The pathologist also liked the new ease with which she communicated with Sherlock. Also, he seemed to finally have understood what was appropriate to say to her and what wasn't. He really tried not to upset her – and, after all, not actively being unkind was his own way of being nice. At least, Molly liked to see it that way.

Just when she had delivered all of the news she'd gathered to the detective she had heard the knock. Sherlock had heard it as well, she could tell by the way he was wishing her a  _nice evening_.

He was early. Molly hadn't done her hair yet.  _But_ , she thought as she went to open the door,  _if this turns out to be the man I'll spend the rest of my life with, he'll have to get used to my messy hair sooner or later_. Happy with the realisation of her remarkable calmness, Molly opened the door and smiled at David.

Today, he had declared that he was about to prepare some food for them, after she had cooked the pasta the other day. She had asked what he'd planned but he hadn't told her; it was supposed to be a surprise. David came in and hugged her warmly. Before pulling away from her, he kissed her cheek soundly. It was a sweet gesture. Molly hadn't told him much about her previous 'dating life' – just that she was still in the process of getting over someone else and he had reacted completely amazing. Both of them knew that he suspected a specific individual of being that  _someone_ , but neither touched the subject. Molly did notice that he had read some papers and made up for the lack of his knowledge about Sherlock. Still, he didn't seem impressed even a bit by the detective genius.

David wasn't pushing anything and behaved a perfect gentleman whenever they met. There had, of course, been moments in which she noticed it must have been hard for him not to try something more. After nights of heavy flirting, she would always leave him standing at her front door after a brief hug. Only once, she allowed him to give her a small peck on the lips. But, he was patient.

When the tall blonde man entered her flat, she was admiring his strong arms once again before he could order her to stay away from the kitchen from now on and settle in the living room with some music or a book. Slightly frowning she turned and obeyed and when she started playing a CD with her favourite symphonies she heard the muffled sound of David unpacking some bags he'd brought.

When, after half an hour, she still didn't notice any actual cooking going on, she became suspicious. She didn't hear pans or pots rattling, noticed no steam or the familiar wheezing sound of her old range hood. "Erm, David," she called in the general direction of her kitchen.

"Yes, dear Molly?" came a quick reply.

"Is... is everything all right in there? Do you need some help?"

"No, no, thanks. All is fine. In fact, I'll be done in a few minutes. Get yourself ready. You could start by turning down this god-awful music a bit."

Molly was not too thrilled by his announcement. Firstly, she knew that her fondness for classical music wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but at least she wasn't playing one of her favourite  _Take That_ records (yes, she liked a weirdly wide range of music!). She was sure that David would have liked this even less. And, secondly, how the hell was he ready already without actually having cooked? In Molly's mind, images of sandwiches and crisps began spinning.  _Oh no – well it's not the end of the world if he's a horrible cook, I can teach him…_

Her thoughts were interrupted by David entering the living room, striding over to the small dining table. He was carrying a plate but Molly couldn't quite see what was on it. She moved closer to him and immediately wondered why she had ever questioned David's abilities. Awaiting her on the table was a huge plate of perfectly prepared Sushi. David disappeared into the kitchen once again and carried two little bowls filled with soy sauce as well as two pairs of chopsticks to the table.

It tasted absolutely delicious. Apparently, David had taken several courses on the preparation of Sushi back in Australia. He told her amazing stories of going fishing in the ocean and then making fresh sushi out of the catch. During the meal, Molly realised that she was currently dating the manliest man living in Britain at the moment. The thought made her giggle and she dropped some fish for the third time this evening. Naturally, she wasn't really good at handling the chopsticks, but neither David nor Molly herself did seem to care about her clumsy behaviour.

Later, when they had settled on the couch together with their glasses of wine, Molly felt utterly content and comfortable being herself and being with David. She sighed quietly. Without a warning, she interrupted David's story about a baby kangaroo he once saved after a car had struck it. She just turned, pulled his head towards her and placed a kiss on his lips. He was startled but soon reciprocated. The kiss was sweet and soft. Molly noticed his rough lips. She didn't mind them, though. After a while, David gingerly grabbed the back of her head with both his hands and pulled her closer to him. She smiled against his lips and he took the opportunity to slowly push his tongue between her slightly parted lips. Molly stopped moving for a moment, which cause David to freeze as well. They stayed like this awkwardly for two seconds. David's tongue resting on the inside of her upper lip.  _Don't over think this!_ , Molly begged her brain. It gave in and she finally opened her mouth further and granted David's tongue access. It felt really nice. He was a gentle kisser, no hurried movements distracted her from the feeling of his tongue lightly massaging and caressing her own, he was clearly the active one now; he had, so to say, adapted nicely after she had initiated the kiss – something she was rarely comfortable with. And, most importantly, he was not a wet kisser. She absolutely hated wet kisses.

Whilst his hands were still in her hair at the back of her head, hers had moved from his shoulders and were now resting on his muscular chest. It felt great. Surprisingly similar to -

Abruptly, Molly removed her fondling hands from David and pulled her head back slightly. She was fairly sure that it was not appropriate to think about how Sherlock's chest had felt when he had hugged her while kissing another man. Her gaze fell upon the orchid now resting on her windowsill. Trying to block out the image of the nervously smiling dark haired man, Molly looked at David again. He appeared worried because she had so suddenly pulled away from him. So, she smiled at him warmly and just snuggled against his shoulder.

He didn't notice her small panic attack and burning cheeks as she leaned against him for a while. Then, she sat back up again and resumed sipping at her wine glass.

They didn't kiss again that evening but the atmosphere still was a romantic one.  _At least I haven't spoiled everything_ , Molly thought. When it was time to say goodbye (both of them had to work early the next day), she accompanied David to the door and he took her face in his hands again and stroked her cheek lightly, smiling warmly.

"Thanks for having me over!"

"Thanks for coming over. And for the Sushi. And for… everything!" He understood and nodded, still smiling. Then he turned around and grabbed his coat. "Till next time," he said, already half out the door.

"Yeah." Molly kept standing in her hallway for a while, touching her cheek and smiling like an imbecile. She almost felt like she didn't deserve such a nice guy.

*

Long after John had said goodnight and vanished into his room, Sherlock was still awake. He hadn't moved for more than two hours and was staring at his screen with unchanged concentration. Suddenly he shrugged and scribbled several pages of notes that wouldn't make sense to anyone who happened to read them. Then, he stared again. At his screen. At his notes. Lastly, at the screen again.

Very calmly, he reached for his phone and dialled. After twelve rings he was greeted by a grumpy and tired voice.

"Do you know what time it is? I should never have given you my-," Sergeant Cooper barked. But the detective cut him off.

"Cambridge (probably some smaller towns around as well), Manchester, and…," he paused, swallowed hard, then continued, "… and London."


	13. Chapter 13

It was Friday evening and Molly found herself standing in the pompously decorated entrance area of St. Bart's. Some other parts of the hospital had been opened as well and equipped with info posters on research and recent publications of participants of the conference. It felt a bit like an open day at the hospital. A small bar was placed in the entrance hall and two women Molly knew as medical residents had been employed to give out the nametags to the researchers and doctors. This evening was to be the starting 'reception' of the conference, so the participants had dressed up a bit. Molly found it to be quite a sad view – elderly men and women in old and tight fitting jackets and brown(-ish) costumes. It was plain to see that these people didn't go out very often. Molly realised that, even if she was the 'young, hip one' amongst the researchers, she must have looked equally out of place in other settings, surrounded by  _normal_  people.

Dressed in a plain black dress reaching just over her knees, she stood on her own close to a side corridor, an empty glass of champagne in her hand. The only effort she had made to look that extra bit elegant was the pearl necklace with matching studs she wore. The pathologist was screening the crowd for Piers Miller. She had looked up photos of him so as to recognise him fast. She didn't really know what she would do if she found him. Maybe go over and just start a conversation on one of his articles? Of course, she'd read all of them. But, perhaps that would be too much? She began to shift nervously.  _Oh my god, what am I actually going to do here?_

Molly looked down into her empty glass and wished for another one to steady her nerves. Just when she searched the room for one of those caterers with their trays, one of them stopped in front of her. He took the empty glass off her smoothly and smiled. Molly had to blink twice before recognising the man. Sherlock had light brown hair, dark brown eyes and glasses.

"Sher…?" Molly started but thought better than to cry out his name. Instead, she calmly went on, "really, a pony tail? That looks ridiculous."  _The glasses, on the other hand, make you look delicious._ Even though she didn't say that last part out loud, Molly suspected he had magically deduced it anyway, which caused her to blush slightly.

"Yeah, well. Had to make sure. People know me around here."

With a subordinate bow, he handed her another glass of champagne, conspiratorially whispering, "be careful, Miss Hooper, you're almost a miniature human." A smirk played on his lips as he said it. "I suspect you'll be inappropriately inebriated after this glass if you don't eat something soon." He sounded almost flirty.

"Thank you for surveying my diet so carefully. Actually, that's kind of a good idea. Be a luv and fetch me some of those hors d'oeuvres, will you? After all, you're a waiter." Molly gave him a sparkling smile (which was also a tiny bit flirty but didn't necessarily have to be taken as such, so she was on the safe side). She was scared that she was testing Sherlock's nerves too much with this request but he went along with it.

"Certainly, madam!"

After he had left her standing in the corner, Molly resumed her scanning of the hall for Piers Miller. Her thoughts raced. Half of her brain was occupied with coming up with some opening line for the oncologist, the other half was constantly telling her not to flirt with Sherlock again.

She had met David two more times this week. Once for lunch and once for dinner and cinema afterwards. During the film he had grabbed her hand had not let go the whole night. The sweet gesture had overwhelmed her. They had kissed again. Passionately. She had also allowed him, well, manual access to certain other parts of her body. But, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself that she wanted to sleep with him – she just couldn't do it. Not yet.

Before her thoughts carried her away, Molly forced her concentration back to the moment. And, just when she suspected Dr Miller not to be there at all, she spotted him. He was standing in a small circle with several senior physicians and the head of St. Bart's oncology department. Piers Miller was a man of average height and extremely above-average weight. He had small eyes, thin lips and an enormous nose.  _Not a beauty in real life either, then. Now, keep calm and drink on, as they say. What now?_  She took another sip of her champagne (not too much though, she was scared that Sherlock might be right – she didn't want to get drunk).

*

Sherlock had managed to get into the catering team via an old client that owed him a favour. He really detested serving people but there was no other possibility to get into the hospital's event without anyone recognising him. The regularity with which he walked the halls in the old building and his familiarity with the staff forbade him to choose an easier disguise.

The detective had studied Molly's collection of information on Piers Miller accurately and had read his way through his articles. He had searched for patterns in his co-authorships and other collaborations throughout the years to find the accomplices Sherlock knew the man must have had to go through with such a  _project_. After long hours, in which he had stuffed his mind palace up to the attic, he was able to identify three men who have all been, at some point, a member of the board of Trustees in Miller's institute. Also, they had published several books with him as well as having acted as project leaders for and with him. The men were a professor in Cambridge (who knew Miller from when they had studied medicine together), an oncologist with his own practice performing new forms of treatment on cancer patients and the head of the oncology department of St. Bart's. The latter was just engaged in an animated conversation with the guest from York.

By reading his research articles Sherlock had also been able to narrow down the reasons as to why Piers Miller was stealing bodies. But, there were still four scenarios left. One thing was clear to the detective by now, though: This man was very morbid and very immoral. However, he needed to go through the rest of the files on the additional bodies found missing in the last two days. Lestrade had called just this morning to confirm that London funeral homes were missing bodies as well, after Manchester and Cambridge had already proved to be right 'guesses' as the DI had called it. Of course, he had asked Sherlock how he had known all of that, but he was not ready yet to reveal everything. The case was starting to make sense but there were still loose ends.

He didn't want to cause too many irregularities in Piers Miller's schedule. He couldn't find out that the consulting detective was framing him. Sherlock had wondered before how the oncologist could seem so calm, anyway. The police had questioned him about his  _missing_  son in law who clearly helped him with the bodies. So, he had to know that they found out  _something_. But, either he underestimated them or he was very sure they couldn't trace him. Why?

To make sure, Molly wouldn't spoil everything he had searched for her in the masses to see how, and  _what_ , she was doing. Nothing, it seemed. Sherlock had found her standing alone in a corner of the big entrance hall, eyeing everyone carefully. He smirked when he saw her analytical eyes scan people fast. With a sigh, he noticed her empty glass of champagne and went over to her. Sherlock had smiled inwardly when he noticed that she wasn't wearing the stupid microscope around her neck tonight.

*

Molly was just chatting to Phil, a colleague of hers from the pathology lab when Sherlock returned with a plate of hors d'oeuvres. She quickly grabbed a few and thanked him with a dismissive smile. She wanted to get to talk to Phil again. Maybe it was far fetched, but she hoped to be able to get access to Piers Miller through him. The other pathologist had been working for the oncology department regularly.

"Since when can you order stuff from the caterers here?" Phil asked after Sherlock had reluctantly moved away. "Have you been flirting with that poor guy to get yourself a butler in him? He was certainly looking a bit smitten."

Molly raised her brows and looked after Sherlock. "Of course not. I just asked nicely. And I don't think he's  _smitten_ … Anyway, a lot of medical celebrities here, right? Have you had a chance to talk to this doctor Miller? I hear he's quite the genius. I've read a lot of his articles."

"Oh, I didn't know you were interested in his research. I've seen him briefly earlier this afternoon. Think he had a meeting with doctor Garrett, up in oncology. I'd love to get in on some project of his – imagine how great it would be to have a publication with him on my CV! Wait here, maybe I can find a way for us into his group over there," Phil said cheerily and winked before he left in the general direction of where Miller was standing with the others.

*

A beep from his pocket let Sherlock stop in mid motion when he was just refilling his tray with glasses. For a millisecond he was annoyed that someone distracted him from his work, but then he realised that this wasn't actually his work. He set his tray aside and grabbed his phone. It was a text message from John.

_Police in Leeds found a dead man._ _Shot execution style._ _6 ft, shoe size 9. Healed gun shot wound, knee.  
_ _JW_

One of the men who stole the bodies in Leeds. They had  _killed_  him. Perhaps he was about to speak to the police? Not enough data to deduce. Sherlock's thoughts raced. Then, he caught a glimpse of Molly. This man, she had been talking to, was just leaving and walked towards the group of people that included Piers Miller.

_Molly_. Sherlock was sure she wanted to get close to the doctor and thus find out about his research. And the detective had basically forced her into this; assuring her it wasn't dangerous at all.  _But it is. How could I have let her get involved? This man gives orders to get people killed!_

When he saw Molly moving towards the group of elderly men, he reacted without thinking about it further. The thought of Molly just so much as talking to this man was agony. In no way would Sherlock allow for her to become a target. He quickly crossed her way and stopped right in front of her.

"What… what are you doing?" Molly whispered. She looked over Sherlock's shoulder. Phil watched the scene with a questioning expression on his face.

"Madam, there has been an inconvenience. Are you driving a Fiat Punto? A transporter of ours accidentally hit one such car. Could you accompany me to the parking deck, please?" Sherlock spoke loud enough for suspicious observers to hear it.

Molly was perplexed. She managed to fake an annoyed eye roll and followed Sherlock to an empty corridor. As soon as they were out of the reception room, she asked him why he had done that. She had been so close to Miller. Sherlock was just looking at her for some seconds. She grew impatient.

"Sherlock?... Sherlock!" Instead of reacting to her, he took off his wig and ran his hands through his curls.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I shouldn't have let you get involved in this. You must go home. Now."

"What? No, I'm so close. What happened? You're all…"  _All what?_  She couldn't quite put her finger on it but he seemed to worry about something. But Sherlock Holmes didn't do concern.

"I lied to you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Piers Miller is a dangerous man. Someone has been killed and I'm sure that it's his doing," Sherlock stated, his eyes locked on hers. He gazed through the glasses he still wore. Only now did she realise how close to her he stood.

"I… I… " At least she had a good reason to be speechless this time. Surprisingly though, she wasn't scared. Not with Sherlock here as well. "But I only want to speak to him. I can help you, Sherlock. I doubt that he will kill me for being an interested pathologist. And, most importantly, he will not get suspicious. Whereas, if a renowned consulting detective…"

"Molly, stop it. I will not allow you getting involved with this man in any way. End of-"

He was cut short by a door opening some thirty feet away. Quickly, Sherlock put his wig back on and when Phil entered the corridor, Sherlock had already stepped closer to Molly and buried his head in her neck. Molly winced at the sudden movement of him pushing her against the wall.

"Oh, Moll, I'm… sorry. I didn't want to  _disturb_  anything," Phil held back a laugh but his eyes basically screamed  _I knew it!_ in her direction. Her heart raced as he took a second too long to turn around and close the door behind him. Slowly, Sherlock moved away just an inch and whispered, "is he gone?" Molly could only nod. So, Sherlock stood up straight again, righted his vest and looked at her. His face was as plain as ever.

"Good. Now, I doubt that either of us can go back in. The word that you're  _having it off_  with the catering guy is out, I suppose." Molly blushed instantly. "Earlier I overheard Phil telling a colleague about you flirting with me; he likes a good piece of gossip and this is premium gossip. Follow me," he had already started walking down the corridor before stating the instruction.

_Oh, what a convenient reason to stop me from meeting Miller_ , Molly thought when she started to catch up with Sherlock. Her cheeks were still burning when she managed to ask, "where are we going?"

"To the lab. That's where my proper clothes are. Since you are wearing stilettos tonight I imagine that that's also were you keep the spare pair of shoes you brought. Plus, there are no pockets in that dress of yours. Your car keys have to be  _somewhere_ ," he stopped, smirking and eyeing her curiously, "and they are not on your body at the moment." Molly could not have been more embarrassed if she had been standing naked in front of him.

When they arrived in the lab, Sherlock immediately discarded of his wig and the glasses and put them into a bag sitting in the corner of the room. He also took off the vest and stepped out of his shoes. He sighed when he put his own jacket on. Molly could see the relief on his face. Finally, he was himself again. She just stood watching him. The lab was only illuminated by the light that shone in from the corridor, they hadn't bothered to enlighten the whole room for grabbing their stuff. Shadows scurried over his face. There was no point denying it - Sherlock Holmes was a very beautiful man.

"My bag is in the other room. Just a sec," Molly told him as she walked towards the small adjacent chamber in which she had stored her big bag and the extra pair of shoes (of course, Sherlock had been right in his deductions). She had barely reached her things when he appeared behind her, lowering his mouth to her ear.

"Shhh. Don't move. Someone is about to enter the lab any second. Duck behind that stool and stay there in any case."

Not a second after he said it, the door to the lab was opened. Fortunately, the smaller adjacent room could not be overlooked from where the other person must have been standing. Molly could see nothing but the edge of a desk and could not hear anything but the sound of her heart beating harshly. She felt Sherlock's breath on her neck; he was kneeling right behind her.

The intruder did not turn on any lights either. They heard him fumble with something and then speak. Obviously, he was on the phone with someone.

"Yes, I'm in the lab now. Nothing unusual as far as I can see."

At the sound of the voice, Molly stopped breathing. She felt Sherlock tense behind her.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock put a hand on her shoulder and Molly recognised it as an unsuccessful try at a calming gesture. She remembered his words and did not move. She knew he was scared of her jumping up and sprinting towards the lab but she was staying put, using all her will power to steady her breathing. As the voice from the main room started sounding again, Molly felt Sherlock's hand slide down her right arm slowly before moving back up. The gesture had become oddly intimate and she felt like a baby he tried to soothe.

"No, don't worry. She's not here; she's not taken off the stupid necklace for days and the signal says she's still at home. Probably watching a rerun of Friends or listening to some flippin' Beethoven or something."

_This bastard. This cruel, fucking arsehole._ Molly almost opened her mouth and apologised for swearing in her thoughts (as she was sure that Sherlock was aware of everything that went through her mind right now purely by staring at the back of her head). She couldn't believe it. She really had thought David was a nice guy. But - seeing as he was currently standing in her lab, talking with a conspiratorial voice to someone and making fun of her – she came to the conclusion that he probably wasn't a nice guy.

"See, that's what I thought from the beginning. Either she's really careful and way more intelligent than we thought or she's just not one of them. Hate to say I told you so…"

Molly couldn't really process what David was saying; the loud sound of rushing blood in her head overshadowed everything else. So, he had been observing her moves with some transmitter in the necklace. Why? Was he just another mad man who tried to get close to her with the intention of getting to Sherlock? Was he one of Moriarty's men? Molly felt so stupid. And angry. At David, at Sherlock. Why couldn't she be allowed some happiness for once? Why did it always have to be about him? Her anger quickly became guilt. She had done it again; she had endangered Sherlock. Molly felt sick and dizzy. As if he knew her thoughts, Sherlock tightened his grip on her arms and steadied her.

"No, at first glance it doesn't seem like there's new bodies here yet."

_Oh my god!_  He was one of the body thieves. Or working with them. Did he know about her helping Sherlock? Was that the reason he seemed so cross when she was meeting the detective?

"Look, I better go soon. Miller and Garrett may want to come down or something. I don't want to be seen by them. Also, this Holmes person is here way too often. Sooner or later he'll catch on that something's wrong with the doctors and I don't want my work interrupted by a civilian. You really should try harder to localise Mycroft."

At his brother's name, both Sherlock and Molly gasped. He moved a bit behind her and put slight pressure on her shoulders again. She understood this as a sign not to move.

"I don't care if he's in Nicaragua, everyone at the ministry told me he's the only one who can handle his crazy brother."

At this, Sherlock stood up swiftly and quietly, and suddenly spoke. Molly cringed but didn't move.

"Oh, I regret to tell you that your information is erroneous in this point, David. Mycroft, as any other person, cannot  _handle_ me." While speaking, he quickly moved into the main room, revealing himself to a shocked David.

"What the…?"

"For a short moment, I was having doubts about my knowledge of the human nature there. I almost thought you were one of them. Of course, all is clear now. Which minister is handling this matter?" Sherlock spoke pointedly and calm. Nonetheless, Molly could hear an unusual tension in his voice.

"Health," David just said, "how long have you known and, more importantly, how much do you know?"

"We can discuss the case later on when we're not –"

"Discuss the case? Do you actually want us working together? I'm not having you interfering with this. It's a government operation and you're certainly not a trained agent. This has to be handled delicately."

"No, of course I  _don't want_  to be working with you. I merely require the information you already gathered so I can come to my conclusions quicker." Sherlock wrinkled his nose, took out his phone and dialled. "Yes, hello brother dear. How is Nicaragua? Any civil unrest? - Now, I've got an agent who apparently belongs to the minister of health and he doesn't want to play with me. Could you be so nice as to tell him there's nothing he can do to hinder me?" Not waiting for an answer, he gave the phone to the other man who reluctantly took it.

"Hello sir. Yes sir. Yes, that's… No, of course but… Yes, he does, apparently. But… Yes, good." With a grim face, David handed the phone back to Sherlock.

"So? – Very good. I'll have to invite you to a nice Weight Watchers dinner as a thank you when you come back from your trip. Enjoy the sun and the drug murders while you're down there."

"So, what now? Should I fill you in on the details,  _sir_?" David asked with a sour face, sarcasm dripping from his words.

"Later. Why have you been using Molly? There are so many other ways to get into the hospital." Sherlock's voice was definitely not calm anymore, now. His tone was menacing.

David was surprised by this turn of the conversation. After a pause, he answered, "it was convenient, with my sister knowing her and all. That's basically why they flew me in from Australia. And, after all, she is very naïve and gullible. Oh, what am I telling you – I've done my research; you know very well to manipulate people for your means. And, we couldn't be sure that she had nothing to do with it," he added half-heartedly. "Like this, I could also monitor her. Killing two birds with one stone, you see." Now, he sounded almost cheery, seemingly thinking Sherlock would understand his reasoning and agree.

"I see," Sherlock brought out through gritted teeth, "and the fact that my brother trusted her enough to let her work with me wasn't satisfying for you lot? Don't make up reasons. She was just an easy way in. You really toy with people like they were puppets. You disgust me. What if they would have found out about you? You endangered her."

"Man, don't be so serious. Nothing happened, nobody got hurt."

"Nobody got hurt? How do you think Molly will feel about this? You fooling her like that. Making her think you care. Making her care for you…"

"Now, come on. No reason to get all teary." David said, "but, you know you're right. It would be a pity if she knew why I started dating her. I don't suppose you could keep that bit to yourself until all of this is over?" Sherlock just stared.

"Ah well, thought so. Bummer. She has quite the nice arse. I'm sure you've noticed yourself. And she really goes like the clappers, if you know what I mean." David, by this time could see that Sherlock was furious and the detective knew that the other man was saying all this on purpose. The blonde man put on a dirty smile before speaking the next sentence.

"And you wouldn't believe the things she does with her –" David never got the chance to finish the sentence, for Sherlock's fist was making contact with his nose that very same moment.

Not having expected the hard blow, David raised a hand to his face and tried to stop the immense amount of blood coming from his nostrils. With the other hand he grabbed a desk to keep his bent posture from falling down. With an unbelieving expression he looked up at Sherlock whose eyes sparkled violently when they met his.

"You know what's funny?" Sherlock asked without the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. "I've literally dreamed about doing this. Come on Molly, we're leaving," he added a bit louder.

David's face went even paler than it already was. Very slowly, Molly stood up and walked into the main room of the lab. Her face was red and she gravely stared at Sherlock for several seconds. Then she turned and looked at the still hunched blonde man. Sherlock had never seen such a despiteful look on her face. But, oddly, she also looked grand and proud. She didn't say anything and locked eyes with Sherlock again before nodding almost imperceptibly.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock and Molly hadn't spoken a word on their way to her car. Her head was just too crowded with emotions to concentrate on a single one to put into words. Instead, she had settled on silent crying. She was a bit embarrassed to be so out of it in front of Sherlock, but soon she decided that embarrassment was an extra emotion she didn't need right now. He was mute for different reasons. Of course, there were also emotions, mainly anger towards David. But he didn't say anything because he just knew of nothing to say. He wasn't good in these situations and was bound to say the wrong thing. He hoped that Molly recognised this and accepted his lack of comforting words. Also, he was fairly sure nothing could comfort her at the moment.

Sherlock sincerely hoped Molly would stop crying soon. All he wished for was some quiet to think about all that had happened. When they arrived at her car, his brain told him to leave her there and go home as quickly as possible. He needed some violin time. His stomach, however told him to stay put and finally look Molly in the eyes.

Her hands were shaking when she tried to put they key in the lock and small sobs escaped her as she grew frustrated. The stream of tears wasn't diminishing. With a small sigh, Sherlock said, "you shouldn't drive in that state. You'll kill yourself driving into something because you cannot see the road. Give me your keys."

Molly was surprised that he spoke at all, more so when she considered the relative softness of his voice. Even the demand of her handing over the keys wasn't spoken in his typical manner. He sounded genuinely concerned. So, she weakly raised her hands and dropped the keys into his waiting hand, not really pleased with the fact that she would have to take a cab home and come back for the car tomorrow.

She knitted her brows in astonishment when he moved closer to her, placed his free hand on her back and softly led her to the passenger's side of the car. He unlocked it and opened the door, motioning for her to sit down inside.

"Sherlock, are you planning to drive my car?" She looked up at him, regretting her stupid question immediately. He indulged her and didn't comment on it. A small smile formed on his lips and he plainly nodded.

When he was seated in front of the wheel, he looked at it for a while. Furrowing his brows, he studied every button there was.

"I… I didn't know that you could drive. You  _can_  drive, right?" Molly's impression grew concerned when he hadn't so much as turned the key in the ignition after almost a full minute. Sherlock noticed that she had stopped crying. His tense muscles relaxed a bit. He could somehow deal with her as long as she didn't start crying again.

"Of course I can drive," he said, employing all his persuasive power, "I just didn't do it for quite a while. So… which one was the brake again?"

*

Molly hadn't shed another tear during the drive to her flat. She was far from being happy but she didn't dare close her eyes or concentrate on anything else than the streets in front of her and her hand hovering over the handbrake. She was highly alert and was thrown toward the window more than once by sudden turns in Sherlock's driving. He nodded curt apologies and sped on.  _Really surprising how a primal survival instinct overshadows all other misery in life_ , she thought. But, when she stepped out of the car in front of her flat, she didn't make a comment on his driving. She had caught the real 'comforting' meaning of his gesture and had appreciated it.

Sherlock closed the car door behind him, locked the vehicle and caught up with her on the way to the building.

"Thank you!" Molly said.

"Not a problem. I had actually planned on driving again some time soon. One never knows when it's necessary; so I did well to refresh my knowledge of the process."

"No, I didn't mean that." She was thankful  _in a way_  that she made it home alive but she wasn't really thankful for his initial decision to drive her. She would have felt saver driving herself, even with teary eyes. Of course, she didn't tell him this. Instead, she quickly added, "I'm thanking you for what you said, and did, earlier." Her eyes were glistening with tears once again. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, yes. That's… not a problem either. I just… I mean he didn't…" His dim-witted search for words made him angry. He cleared his throat and began again. His expression grew more sincere. "I would do that anytime, Molly. And you don't have to thank me for anything. I quite enjoyed punching David," he added with a smirk. A small smile played on her features but she stayed silent. After a pause, he went on, "you know, his behaviour made me furious. You don't deserve such treatment. With all that happened with… You are better than that and I'm sorry you have to endure this. Even though  _this time_  it wasn't my fault, you shouldn't -"

"Sherlock, what are you saying? The whole Jim-business wasn't your fault. I never blamed you and I never will. You know that, right?"

He had been avoiding looking her in the eye not to see the distracting tears but now he was turning his head to face her, giving her a gentle smile.

"You're very kind, Molly Hooper. Come on, I will make you tea. That's the procedure when a friend is distressed, right?"

*

Molly couldn't believe it when she entered her small flat. In less than a week Sherlock Holmes had been here twice. She had so often wished for the situation she found herself in at the moment. Him accompanying her home after a night out together. Of course, the circumstances were completely different from the ones she had dreamt up. She wasn't feeling well and she would have liked to just be left alone. She just wanted to cry for a few hours until she was too weak to keep crying and fall asleep.

But Sherlock had been persistent. And there was still a part of her that couldn't send the man away just like that. Especially not after he had punched, and most likely broken the nose of, that bastard David. Never in her life had someone punched another person just for her sake. Although it wasn't as chivalrous as she had expected the gesture to be, she still felt some gratification.

After taking her coat, Sherlock manoeuvred her into her living room and positioned her on the sofa. He went straight into her kitchen and filled the kettle. Molly watched him curiously through the open door. All his movements seemed oddly out of place. Sherlock Holmes making tea was too… domestic. Not enough grace and / or excitement involved in the task.

After a few minutes of silently preparing the tea, Sherlock joined her on the sofa and placed the cups on the small table in front of them. Neither of them knew what to say. Sherlock wasn't someone to lengthily discuss matters like hurt feelings, or even  _broken hearts_. Molly, on the other hand, knew that Sherlock didn't really want to talk about it, which caused her to stay mute.

After a while, Sherlock started, "Molly, you know that I probably will not be able to comfort you in any way. But maybe it helps to let you know that your hormonal balance should be on track again in one to three months. If you quickly find some other recipient of your affections, the process will even speed up. Have you thought about getting another cat?"

Molly couldn't help but laugh at this. It was typical for Sherlock to break everything down into chemistry. And he was most likely right. She had experienced more than once that time could heal emotional wounds quite successfully.

"You're right. Not about the cat, though. Any number of household cats that exceeds  _one_  will most definitely cause me to become a grumpy old spinster. And I'm not ready to be that – yet!"

"In that case you'll have to redirect your affections towards another human. You shouldn't have problems finding male companions. You are reasonably attractive. Come to think of it, why have you been single for so long?"

Molly's cheeks went crimson and she could see puzzlement on Sherlock's face. He didn't know why the question would make her nervous. She was pretty sure that 'because I've been desperately in love with you for several years' wasn't a good answer. So she settled with the equally true, "I simply don't have a lot of time, my job is very demanding. And I…," it had been a long time since she had opened up to someone like that. She didn't know why she was telling Sherlock these personal things. But she didn't mind and the words came naturally. "I find it hard to trust people. I have been disappointed before, by men in general. Not just by Jim or David. I used to believe that everyone meant well, I was so naïve. Maybe I still am, but every disappointment meant that it took me a little longer to be ready for someone new. Now, I don't even know if it's worth the trouble and the time you put in."

She started crying again. Sherlock looked at her with an almost sad face. Then, mostly to not have to deal with the tears, he extended one arm behind her, grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her into a tight hug. Her face rested on his chest and Molly allowed herself to sob into his shirt quietly for a while.

After a few minutes the sobs went very silent and eventually stopped. They didn't move and the only sound in the room was their breathing. Molly's breathing had become very steady and Sherlock sheepishly slid a hand to her wrist to take her pulse. She had fallen asleep. He didn't dare to move and so he just sat there. Thinking about what she had said. It was weird seeing people in distress like that. The thought of not finding a companion she could trust and spent her life with had made her seem so desolate. Suddenly, Sherlock wasn't sure if his lack of those feelings actually made him superior to anyone else. It certainly saved him some pain. Though, he realised, he would willingly suffer this pain in her place if it was possible.

After an hour, he carefully sat up and lifted Molly off the sofa. Balancing her light figure through her flat, he found her bedroom and entered. Very slowly, he lowered her down on her bed and took her shoes off. Then, he draped the sheets over her limp body and looked at her for a few seconds before leaving her bedroom and her flat.

*

It was only in the early hours of Saturday morning when Sherlock returned to 221 B. He had walked aimlessly through the streets of London after leaving Molly's flat. He'd thought about her, about David, about what he had said before he'd punched him.  _She really goes like the clappers… you wouldn't believe the things…_ The blonde man's words kept ringing through his head and Sherlock tried to shake them away, recalling the memory of the satisfying feeling of his fist hitting the other man's face. Then, his thoughts wandered towards the case again.

Piers Miller was obviously doing something very illegal and Sherlock was already sure that it had to do with his research. Had some people died because they were treated with the wrong medication? Likely, but if he had everything covered through Max Knight why did he bother to have the bodies stolen? And, why did no one in the other towns catch on to something being wrong. Dr Garrett couldn't have been the only one involved in this in London. He had help as well. The next days would hopefully clear that up. It wouldn't take him longer than a few hours to go through the information on all corpses. The emails and texts from Lestrade told him that, all in all, 578 bodies were confirmed to be missing. Silently, he congratulated himself on such a good quota.

Sooner or later, and he imagined it would rather have to be sooner than later, he needed to contact that horrible man David again. He despised him, his line of work, and his dishonesty towards him, towards Molly. There was her face again. To see her tears had almost hurt Sherlock physically. He remembered that feeling from when Mrs Hudson had once come home after being burgled in the streets on her way home from Tesco. She had seemed so distressed. Of course, he had made sure that the burglar fell down some flights of stairs accidentally before being reported anonymously to the police.

With a sigh, he walked up to the nearest main road and waved for a cab. At least he could now delete his note in the mind palace telling him to find what was wrong with David. For some mad days, his brain, as well as John, had him almost convinced that he was actually being  _jealous_. How ridiculous. After all, there was something very wrong with David and he had simply caught on quickly. Like he does!

Back in Baker Street he decided to get some rest. He had a long day of paperwork ahead of him. And, he thought, he needed to go check on Molly. He owed her that much, after having dragged her into the case. Also, he still needed to convince her not to get too close to Miller. If she got hurt –

_Right, bed now!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is kind of a Chapter 15b here:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/503885
> 
> It features explicit sexual content. If that's not your thing just skip it and click on the next chapter, you won't miss things that are important to the storyline.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock needed some time to gain full consciousness after waking up from a rather  _intense_  dream about Molly. Pulling the sheets off his body and looking down, he decided to re-evaluate his notion of inter-personal relations, with a special focus on sexual intercourse. He made a mental note to deal with the topic whenever he would have free time to think. First, however, he needed to change his sheets and get fresh pyjamas.

He had only slept a few hours but wasn't tired at all anymore so he showered and got dressed quickly. John was sitting at the kitchen table, having pushed several experiments and a few notes to one side to be able to place his plate somewhere. He was still in his pyjamas.

"How was the reception event? Anything interesting? Did you get my text? I'm worried, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes wandered through the room and took in John's appearance for less than a second. With a calm tone, he asked, "How was your date?"

John knew that he wouldn't be able to keep such things from his flatmate. He also knew that Sherlock had already deduced everything he wanted to know. So, instead of directly answering the question, he replied, "I would ask you how you know, but we are quite past that naïve stage, don't you think? So, as I wanted to pop in the bathroom, I'd appreciate it if you could just give me the abbreviated version of your brilliance. I'll make sure to be amazed by your deductions."

Sherlock grimaced. Nonetheless, he started his tirade. He just couldn't  _not_  do it.

"You've got the little red dots on your face and neck. You always get them when you eat Indian food. Can't you just tell her that your organism doesn't tolerate the spices? But you're lacking the love bites you usually have after a date with  _Cherry_  (see, I remembered the name). It didn't go very well. You clearly didn't engage in sexual interactions with a woman yesterday. Instead, you are portraying your shameful look of masturbation. After you got the call from the police and texted me the details on the dead man in Leeds, you were not concentrating on her anymore. She left you sitting there alone after this. The fact that your date ended early is clearly visible in the amount of beans you are consuming this morning. You left the restaurant still hungry and were too frustrated to eat something in the flat after you came home. You feel guilty about  _not appreciating her_. The word 'remorse' is written in large letters in the wrinkles on your forehead."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock. "Neat, very… very good deductions, yes." He turned to go upstairs to his room. "I'll be with you in a minute. You can tell me about yesterday then."

Now, Sherlock really needed to look at this new body list. And, another thing was necessary. He took out his phone, sighed, and quickly typed in a text message.

_His number?  
_ _\- SH_

_You do realise I have important business to attend to?  
_ _\- MH_

Sherlock didn't reply and simply waited, knowing his brother was making the necessary phone calls right now. The detective knew it would be easier, and faster, to ask Molly for David's telephone number but he couldn't bring himself to demand that from her. So, Mycroft would have to do. He hated the fact that he now owed his older brother a favour.

*

After John had returned from his room fully dressed and with still damp hair, Sherlock looked up from his notes on the new missing bodies and started to recall the events of the previous evening. He was curt in his explanations and more than once John had difficulties following the story.

"Ah yes, and at the end of the evening there came up another possibility to find out more. By the end of today, we might be a lot closer to catching Miller."

"How so?" John asked.

"The Ministry of Health is already onto him as well. I'm uncertain how much they know; have to talk to someone for that. It's probably not going to be easy, you will have to accompany me."

"Um, OK." John wasn't sure why Sherlock explicitly pointed out that a conversation would not be easy. Most of them weren't. Especially when he needed to talk to anyone  _official_  that wasn't Lestrade. He still wondered what all that Ministry talk was about when he noticed Sherlock's bruised knuckles. Pointing to his flatmate's hands, he asked, "What's that? Have you been in a fight?"

"Oh, this," Sherlock said, following John's gaze and looking at his hand, "I punched David."

"David?"

"Molly's…," he was searching for a word, "suitor. Well, ex suitor I guess."

"WHAT? How dare you? You said you wouldn't interfere. I shouldn't have left you to go out on your own. You're like a child. Poor Molly, you need to apologise."

"She sort of thanked me for it." Sherlock briefly thought about his dream and the way she had  _indeed_  thanked him, more with actions than with words, in his imagination. Quickly shaking the memories away, he proceeded to tell his flatmate the whole story of how David had used the pathologist to get to the hospital staff in general, and Dr Garrett in particular.

"Oh," John stated, "in that case… well done. You may have accidentally done something noble there, Sherlock!" John smirked. The other man looked almost appalled.

Sherlock's phone beeped with a text message. After reading it with a satisfied grin, he turned to John and said. I hope you don't have a lunch date yet. We're meeting up with David. Typing in the number his brother had sent him, he stood up from his chair and began pacing. He smiled brightly at his reflection in the mirror when he heard the agent's voice. "Hello there, how's your nose?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "I'm sending you the address of a restaurant. Be there at one."

*

Molly woke up with a weird mixture of feelings. She had to have slept very long; the light and shadows in her bedroom were peculiar and it just didn't feel like morning. She turned around and looked at the small alarm clock on her nightstand. 1.03 pm.  _Oh my god, I slept half the day!_

Then, she started to remember the last night and wasn't wondering about her emotional state anymore. Brief flashes of memory flooded her mind: David kissing her, caressing her face, sliding his hands down her body hungrily. She wanted to vomit. A deep, cruelly familiar sadness took hold of her. Fiercely shaking her head, she banned the pictures from her mind. Instead, she replaced them with the dull sound she had heard when Sherlock's fist landed on that bastard's nose. A small smile crept on Molly's face.

She slowly lifted the sheets off her body. Surprised, she noticed that she was still wearing the dress from last night. She realised she wasn't really remembering getting ready for bed. Then it hit her. She must have fallen asleep. In Sherlock's arms. She blushed slightly as she recalled the feeling of his warm arms around her shaking body.  _He must have carried me to bed._   _Oh_.

She swung her feet out over the edge of her mattress. At the fast movement, she felt a pulsating pain in her head. She had cried too much. Sighing, she stood up and dragged herself to the bathroom. Taking a long shower, Molly replayed everything that had happened. Eventually she stopped pitying herself and remembered how she had almost met Piers Miller. She felt a little pinch in her stomach when she thought about Sherlock's warnings. Still, this chance was just too good.  _He must be at the hospital today,_ she knew about a presentation of his latest article later that day.  _If I could just.. Just what, Molly? I'll see what when I'm there_. Her decision was made; she would go and  _investigate_. She would show all of them that she wasn't pitiable, mousy Molly.

When she came out of the shower, a new energy flooded her. She remembered something else and re-entered her bedroom. Molly stopped at her nightstand and looked down to the thin silver necklace with the microscope charm that was still lying there. Without hesitation, she picked it up, went back into her bathroom, threw it into the toilet and flushed. A satisfied grin spread across her face.

*

Sherlock and John entered a fancy looking French restaurant at two minutes to one. John had never been here. Sherlock, however, most definitely had. The waiter immediately made his way over and shook his hand effusively.

"Mister Holmes, hello! There is a man already waiting for you."

They were led to a slightly separate table. A blonde man with a cast on his nose was sitting there, looking up at the two men. Dark bruises had formed around the nose and under his eyes. John was glancing sideways at Sherlock who seemed very calm holding his hands behind his back.

"David," Sherlock started, "this is my friend, doctor John Watson" John frowned a little and nodded towards David, who eyed him suspiciously. They sat down at the table.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?" David said with suppressed anger in his voice.

"It's like you can read my thoughts," Sherlock countered. John looked back and forth between them. He had expected some tension after his friend had told him that he had punched the other man. But this was a truly venomous atmosphere. Most striking was that Sherlock was so openly furious after just being so composed. It was very unlike him to have mood changes like this. Not on cases at least, with his guard up and his chosen persona in place.

"Tell me what you know about Piers Miller and his associates. Be precise and quick."

"Piers Miller was applying for government funding for a research project of his. It got turned down. He wanted to work with human subjects and test medication he claimed could slow down the growth of tumours. There hadn't been done enough research before. The ministry thought it too dangerous and told him that it was neither feasible nor ethically justifiable to start such dangerous experimentation on humans."

At that, Sherlock snorted, "Since when do you care about ethics?" Ignoring him, David went on, "he complained but ultimately backed away and started on another project on a similar drug. It wasn't as promising but also not as risky. The ministry funded him. A few months after this, they started to find irregularities in his study reports and looked into everyone involved in his studies. Doctor Garrett popped up early on."

"What irregularities?" John asked.

"Incoherencies about his test persons. Sometimes the age varied in different reports, sometimes their medical history was inconclusive. We also discovered that in several cases the CAT scans of tumours were duplicated from other person's reports. The experts in the ministry soon thought that maybe he was illegally trying to test the other drug as well."

Sherlock nodded and gestured for David to go on as two glasses of wine they hadn't ordered arrived at their table. The waiter smiled at them and left again quickly.

"This being a study on cancer patients, naturally a lot of them died. The ministry wanted to act on their suspicions silently so they got some warrants and exhumed the bodies."

"But they only found coffins filled with stones," Sherlock finished.

"In most cases at least. They knew that this was a potential scandal no one needed, so they decided to get someone into the hospital -"

"That someone being you." Sherlock's expression darkened slightly again. "Right, that's all I need to know for now. I trust that my brother has forwarded all of my contact details to you. I expect your files promptly."

Without even having sipped from his wine, Sherlock rose from his seat and turned to leave. He was already several steps away before John stood up to follow him, awkwardly waving at David.

When they were walking down the street after having left the restaurant, John turned to Sherlock. "What about lunch?" he asked.

"What about it?"

"You said we were meeting David for lunch and not a complimentary glass of wine and a four-minute conversation. Are we going to go somewhere else? We haven't actually eaten!"

"You know I don't eat when I'm on cases," was all Sherlock had to say while he positioned his coat collar.

_Why do I put up with him?_ In moments like this, John honestly didn't know _._


	17. Chapter 17

John entered the flat ten minutes after Sherlock, having purchased a sandwich downstairs. The detective had left him waiting in the queue and demanded he bring coffee. When John closed the door behind him, he found the other man just putting his phone in his pocket.

"Has something come up?" John asked, curiously eyeing the phone in the suit pocket.

"Ah, erm, no. Nothing new in the case." Sherlock sounded weird. But before John could enquire further, his flatmate tossed him some files.

"Now we know what sorts of things we have to look for in these. I expect your medically trained eye to be equally good at finding irregularities as mine. Try to find patterns" Sherlock smirked. John shook his head.  _I'm pretty sure that was supposed to be a compliment_.

*

Two o'clock. Molly was grabbing her keys and coat and left her flat. She didn't want to drive through the town centre on a Saturday so she decided to take a cab. When she had settled in the backseat, she felt her pockets vibrate. Pulling out her phone she saw a text message.

_Are you still distressed?  
_ _\- SH_

A bit surprised with Sherlock's non-case use of texting, she spent some time composing an answer that wasn't showing how shaken she still felt. At the same time she didn't want to lie to him obviously. He would know anyway.

_A bit, yes. But, I think I'll live… Thanks again for everything.  
_ _\- Molly_

She had to smile when she typed in the reference to his childish comments back when she had not examined his cut cheek that day he came to her lab. Then she remembered all of the conversation of the encounter and slightly frowned. Sherlock had deduced everything about her connection to  _David…_

For a while, Molly held her phone, expecting an answer. But none came. Just when she wanted to put it away, it vibrated again.

_Drink more tea! John informed me that I am noble.  
_ _\- SH_

She didn't really know what that meant and just hoped he hadn't told John that he'd carried her to bed. The pathologist was relieved when another incoming message resolved the problem of having to reply something to this.

_What are you doing today?  
_ _\- SH_

_What? Sherlock is chatty?_  Briefly, Molly wondered if she seemed so destroyed that the detective actually thought he needed to pull that many strings to cheer her up. Nonetheless, she answered (she would never  _not_  answer to one of Sherlock's messages).

_Just driving to Bart's. Need to finish reports.  
_ _\- Molly_

Deliberately, she wasn't mentioning her plan to go and see Piers Miller's presentation and maybe even try to speak with him.

_Stay away from Miller. Please.  
_ _\- SH_

Sometimes, his little know-it-all tricks could be rather annoying.

_Don't worry.  
_ _\- Molly_

*

Sherlock went back and forth, screening the new lists of names as well as studying whole medical files of the Leeds corpses. He had also manages to single out some files that contained obviously duplicated tumour screenings. He had also hectically made several piles. First, he had arranged them by towns, then by gender, age, even height. More and more information piled up in the room of his mind palace he had labelled 'corpses 2.3' (he had to number them, as there were several rooms dedicated to dead bodies).

John, on the other hand, was calm and read file after file, a concentrated look on his face. He took notes minutely.

Sherlock was currently arranging them by cause of death and was almost finished with this task, constantly replaying key facts about every corpse in his mind, when John turned on his chair and looked over at him.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I don't know if that means something, but I think I kind of found a pattern."

Immediately, the detective's head shot up and he eyed his friend. "Go on."

"Well, it's not all of them, by far not-"

"Just tell me, will you?" Sherlock frowned, he was impatient already.

"Okay, okay. At first I thought it was a coincidence but now I've found that several of the dead had been visiting an African country or a nation in the Far East between nine and thirteen months prior to their deaths. A considerable amount even went on regular trips to these regions."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. His eyes darted around and John tried to imagine the thoughts speeding through his friend's brain. "Hm. Statistically unlikely that this is a coincidence. Very good, John. Can you tell me the names of these people?"

The blonde man nodded curtly and turned his gaze to his notes. Slowly, he read the names out loud. When he was finished, he added, "these are only the ones from London, though. I haven't been through the other files yet." Sherlock had listened to the names and with each addition little pieces of a puzzle had fallen into place. He was smirking by now and looking towards his own pile of files. He had recognised most of the names John had presented to him and had sorted them by characteristics in his head until he had found the one category they were all falling in.

"Can I see their autopsy reports?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at his notes for a few seconds and frowned slightly. "For most of them-"

"There were none," Sherlock interrupted him, "because they were all accidental, i.e. unsuspicious deaths, right? No full autopsies were performed."

"How did you… Never mind. What now?"

"I remembered and I deduced, that's how I know, of course!" His hands flew to his chin and his eyes closed for a second and after opening them again, Sherlock absent-mindedly whispered, "Vaccination," looking around furiously, in search for something. John tilted his head in confusion. "Give me their full files, anyway," the detective ordered his flatmate.

While John was assembling the files he had just been through, Sherlock was quickly and determinedly picking several other files out of the chaos in front of him. Hastily he took John's files and laid them out on the table next to his freshly picked ones and scanned over them.

"Aha!" Sherlock smiled victoriously.

*

Molly arrived at the hospital and looked around the big hall. She slowly strode over to the reception desk and asked a young nurse for a conference programme leaflet. When she handed it over, Molly thanked her and scanned it with curious eyes. Piers Miller's presentation would not be for more than two hours. She decided to check the lab for anything interesting and was disappointed when she didn't find a living soul in there.

It was only three o'clock and she didn't want to go home before the presentation so Molly decided to pay her morgue a visit. She hoped that there might be some researchers who'd come for the conference. Maybe she could get talking to peers or even Miller himself. And, if nothing else would come up to distract her, she might even fill out some reports after all. They were piling up lately.

When she arrived, she found Phil standing in front of one of the dissecting tables. He was just putting on some rubber gloves.

"Oh, hi Molls," he called over, "wasn't expecting you down here today. Did I misread the plan again and it's actually your shift, not mine? Oh, I hate it when that happens. I should go on one of those time management courses, these extra shifts are really taking the last bit of coherent thought out of me. " He looked confused.

"No, no. You're quite right. I don't officially work today. Just came in for the conference. Wanted to listen to some lectures and presentations. But I got here early and didn't have anything to do upstairs." Molly understood fully well that the working hours in St. Bart's could drive you mad.

"Ah good. You had me questioning myself." Obviously relieved, he went on, "Although, to be honest, I'm surprised you came in today." He smirked and she had a feeling that she knew where this was going. She looked to the floor. "I expected you would stay at home and let yourself  _be served_  by that waiter some more." The badly concealed innuendo was making her cheeks redden and she remembered Sherlock's brush against her neck as he had pressed her against the wall in the dark corridor.  _Pull yourself together, woman. It's better everyone thinks you went off with the waiter than knowing what really happened._

A fake smile plastered Molly's face when she replied, "Well, he wasn't one to keep for a long time. Got bored quite fast and sent him home."

"Doctor Molly Hooper! You reveal sides of your personality I hadn't dared to dream of," Phil said jokingly. She could almost see his mind working; he was already considering whom to tell the news of Molly Hooper being a crazy  _man-eater._ He really was a gossip.

Trying to divert from the topic, she spoke again. "I'll just settle with my reports. I see you have a new body there, don't want to disturb you."

"Oh, it's no problem, really. No one's waiting for this one, it's an unidentified body that's been found discarded in a rubbish container. I'd love to chat a bit more. Should I get some coffee?" Without really waiting for an answer, Phil was on his way to the door. Molly sighed when he had left the morgue.  _Great, now I need to come up with a convincing story of how Sherlock – no, the waiter! – came back to my place and_ bedded me _. Which is more or less what he did..._  Her mind went places it shouldn't have gone. Realising her inappropriate fantasies, she coughed and stood up from her chair. She needed distraction. And she needed to come up with some gossip to tell Phil when he would come back.

Molly started pacing around the cold morgue and pulled her cardigan closer to her body. Friendly talk with gossiping colleagues wasn't her strong side. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was still quite a bit of time until the evening presentations would start. Nervously, she tried to busy her fingers and her hands instinctively moved to her throat, where the necklace with the microscope pendant had been, to fiddle with it. She remembered that, and why, it wasn't there anymore. A new level of discomfort darkened her mood.

It really was so typical. For years on ends, her life was boring but at least it wasn't like she had to deal with constant humiliation and complete heartbreak every few months. That had obviously changed since Sherlock. Was he worth all of that? Still sauntering through her morgue, she found herself wondering if her life would be better without him in it. She was surprised that this was actually the first time she had ever asked herself this question. She was even more surprised by the immediate answer her mind (or was it her stomach?) supplied:  _No_.

Right at this moment, even though she was feeling unworthy, unloved and entirely unimportant (and she was fully aware that Sherlock wasn't likely to cure her of any of those feelings) she didn't want her life to be any different. Sherlock was indeed worth all of that. Seeing his beautiful mind work and solve crimes was all Molly needed to keep going. She was happy to have a part in all his doings, as tiny as it may be. She would never be more than a friend to him. She would probably never really stop loving him but even that seemed all right. She was happy to be just a friend (and have him acknowledge this fact on good days); not many people could call themselves friends of the world's only consulting detective.

She had gotten distracted. It all made her realise that her little problems were nothing compared to those of other people's. She had never had a dead relative stolen, she had never had a bomb attached to her body, she had never had a criminal syndicate hunt her down.  _So stop complaining because some guy didn't really like you!_  She wouldn't let Sherlock down with this. She would help him to get Piers Miller and hold him responsible for whatever disgraceful thing he did with the corpses.

Finally, Molly had stopped pacing and found herself standing in front of the dissecting table. She glanced at the body and…  _Oh my god, that's-_

At that moment, Phil reappeared with two cups of coffee in his hands and looked startled at Molly's shocked expression. She had grabbed the edge of a desk to keep herself from falling down.

"Molly, is everything all right?"

Molly swallowed hard. "Your body isn't unidentified anymore. I know who that is."


	18. Chapter 18

Molly stood, still in shock, and her thoughts were racing. Phil moved closer to her and set the cups of coffee down. He looked concerned.

"What? How…?" he trailed off.

She had recognised the pale features only barely. The man on the table had obviously been beaten quite badly. However, he had not been bludgeoned to death, the bullet hole in his head was a fairly straightforward hint to the cause of death. His lifeless limbs showed almost no defence wounds, instead his wrists were marked where they had most probably been bound together with some sort of strong rope.

Molly couldn't quite believe it. Sherlock had told her about the dead man in Leeds, warned her not to talk to Piers Miller. He'd said the doctor was a dangerous man. But, somehow, she hadn't felt any concern or even fear. Not until now.

Now, she stared at the dead man on the table in front of her and reality hit her. Sherlock was not here and that fact made her shiver. He needed to come and… somehow make it right! Whilst taking out her phone to call the detective, she remembered the other pathologist who was still staring at her with questioning eyes.

Phil walked over and offered her his arm. Then, he led her to a chair. "Sit down and relax a bit," he told Molly. She nodded absentmindedly.

"Better? Now, who is this and how do you know him?" Phil had moved to her side and placed a hand to rest on her shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

With a shaking voice, Molly said, "He is called Max Knight. I… I went to med school with him."

*

Sherlock spent only a few seconds regretting his decision to concentrate on the cancer bodies in the prior case scenarios he'd played out in his mind. Being sure that Piers Miller and his colleagues were behind it all, it had made sense that the people who had died from cancer held the explanation. But, there had been something he'd missed. Of course, they were important, but the crucial information was to be found in the  _other_  files. The files of the people who died in accidents and from other illnesses. He scanned the papers quickly, mumbling.

John tried to remain patient. So far, he hadn't completely understood what Sherlock was playing at. But, he knew there was no use in trying to get anything out of his flatmate before the process in his head was completed. So, he just sat opposite the man and watched him work. It was still fascinating to watch Sherlock work, every time.

After a while, Sherlock calmed down a bit, but still focused his attention on the files in front of him. However, John deemed it save to speak now.

"So, you said vaccination. Am I right in assuming that you meant the people who flew to Africa and Asia had to be vaccinated against some virus?"

"Hepatitis A as it turns out," Sherlock answered without looking up, still reading the medical files.

"Err, okay. But, what does that have to do with Piers Miller and his cancer research?"

"Well, they all turned up to the ambulant clinic hours at St. Bart's and look who treated them!" Sherlock raised his head now, looking at John, a sparkling expression in his eyes, as he turned one of the files for his friend to read it. John leaned in closer and scanned the text before him.  _Dr Garrett_.

"Oh."

"Yes. And more curiously, after the first vaccination most of them have somewhat faulty medical reports. I'm sure that, once we have the additional information from the Ministry of Health, we can match the irregularities with the ones from the cancer patients who were part of the  _official_  study. Also, all of the travellers started having different symptoms, mostly fatigue. Most people don't really take something like that seriously. Especially if they've been told by a doctor that a side effect of their vaccination was exactly this. That's why none of the other doctors they went to see suspected anything either."

"Wait, are you saying that Garrett infected them with something?"

"He injected cancer cells, to be more specific. Here, read through the other symptoms. And then look at their scans. These were taken when they came in for their second vaccination and complained about abdominal pain, nausea and the like."

"The scans look absolutely fine," John remarked as he had looked through some of them.

"Exactly. Too fine. Especially when one takes into account that this lady should have an artificial hip joint," he waved one of the scans, "on the  _other_  side! See, in the report it says 'replaced hip joint, left' – in the scans it's the right hip that's artificial! Also, the scan of that 17-year-old girl is obviously actually from a 32-year-old woman who has given birth twice. The list goes on. Really sloppy cheating. I should have looked into them so much earlier!" Sherlock ran his hands through his hair angrily.

"Christ!" John stared at the reports, then he looked up at Sherlock.

"My guess would be that the cells injected in them were taken from a pancreatic tumour. That's the form of cancer that can go undetected for the longest amount of time. But they would need to be genetically altered to really concentrate on that area of the body. Otherwise they would have spread and grown in any random organ. They actually mutated cells further and made them attack one specific area in the human body. That's remarkable."

"Please Sherlock, show  _some_  decency and don't declare them heroes! Do you realise what it means if you are right with this?"

"I  _am_  right!"

"Shut up. They are injecting cancer cells into healthy people!" John's face portrayed a look of utter horror and disgust.

"Not only that, they also killed them when the test drugs they administered in the following 'vaccination' treatments didn't work. And since in most cases there was no post mortem, the cancer wasn't discovered. And even if it was, it was probably thought to be coincidental. If different pathologists performed the autopsies they wouldn't have found the pattern."

John looked very grim and unbelieving in so much cruelty and even Sherlock's face darkened at the thought. Then, the detective quickly grabbed the reports again, his words had made him realise or remember something. John recognised the look in his friend's eyes.

"Oh, but they had to be sure, didn't they?... They aren't urgent, especially the official cancer ones, they can be scheduled at any…"

"What are you talking about now?"

Sherlock rummaged for several moments, ignoring John's enquiry, and finally read a few lines in some of the files. Then, he stilled completely and closed his eyes.

"The plan. I walked past it just yesterday." Silence. Then, "I must go to Bart's.  _Now_!"

*

Molly still couldn't quite grasp it. Slowly, her breath started to go back to normal. Phil hadn't spoken again yet. He was probably giving her some time to adjust and get her composure back.  _OK, analyse and proceed_. She started rationalising and mapped her next moves. There weren't that many, she found. Firstly, and most importantly, she had to tell Sherlock about this. But, Phil was still in the room; she couldn't let him hear the call.

She started to turn in her chair and mumbled, "Erm, I think I need to go to the bathroom. I'll be back in no time and then-"

"I'm sorry Molly," she heard Phil say. She didn't really understand what he meant, but suddenly his hand grasping her shoulder tightened the grip.

"What do you… ouch! Would you mind letting go of my shoulder?"

When he didn't loosen his grip or elaborate, Molly's hand shot up to push his away. But, before she reached him, he let go and caught her wrist. Angrily, her head shot up and she glared at him. "What the…?" She stilled when she saw his face. His eyes glimmered menacingly and Molly's mouth formed a surprised 'o'.

"I'm afraid you cannot go to the bathroom now. I really am sorry, Molls. I never thought you might know him. I wouldn't have let you come in if I had."

"What are you talking about? You're scaring me. Let go of me, please." Molly's concentrated on keeping her voice calm as a realisation dawned on her.

"Oh Molly, Molly, Molly. You know what I am talking about, don't you. Just now, you not only remembered him, right? There was something else in your expression. An understanding, a fear. You know who did this, and why."

"No, no really… I… I don't." Molly desperately tried to wiggle her wrist out of his strong grip but had no chance; he was too strong. Her assurance sounded weak. She didn't really know why she had said this. It wasn't very likely that Phil would just let go of her now and apologise for the misunderstanding. Instead, he ignored her words. Suddenly, she felt something cold against her throat and winced.

"Please do not move. The scalpels are rather sharp and I don't want to make a mess. Not here…" Phil warned her. Molly's eyes widened as her colleague's stare became less frightening and turned to being remorseful. "I really like you Molly, I do. But, you know, no one can know about this. About why Max Knight died. It's too important. Please stand up now." She felt the scalpel on her throat press a bit harder to her skin and began to shiver. Very carefully, she stood up. She was still looking at Phil, afraid to turn her head in any other direction.

"Did you kill him?" she managed to ask when he gently pushed her to the middle of the room.

"No," Phil simply said when they stopped. Molly felt the trench in the floor that led to the drainage where leftover blood from autopsies was discharged. Tears had begun to sting in her eyes when she had recognised where he had been leading her. A little hope was flashing up when Phil said he hadn't killed Max. Maybe he wasn't going to be able to go through with his plan. Perhaps, she could try to talk to him, call upon his compassion, or even his fear of punishment.

"No," Phil resumed, "Max was done by someone else. I am usually the one dealing with the  _accidental_  deaths." When he had said it and Molly understood the connotations, she felt her whole body tense. He wouldn't have a problem killing her. He'd done it before.

"Kneel." Suddenly, his voice was very cold again.

Tears started flowing freely from Molly's eyes as she obeyed and lowered herself slowly. She wished they would stop as a desperate and crazy thought crossed her mind.  _I don't want to go as a coward. I don't want them – Sherlock – to see my face like that_. She wondered if they would even find her body. "Why did you do it?" she asked, in an attempt to keep him talking. She had never imagined that such scenes played out like that in reality. The victim buys time and simultaneously the baddie tells them the entire vicious plan. A bitter smile crossed her features and she was relieved that Phil couldn't see her face as he was standing behind her now. The scalpel still rested on her throat.

"Why? Do you know how many people we could save with doctor Miller's new drug? This will be a revolutionary step in medical research. And I will be a part of it!"

Molly swallowed. "But how did you do it? So many deaths… And why did you need the bodies? Where are they?"

"Urgh, stop it! I'm not an idiot. Don't try to postpone this. I'm afraid that you'll have to die without knowing any details." His voice was a mere whisper by now. He kneeled down behind her, leaning in close, as his head rested on her shoulder. "It's a pity. Did you know I always wanted to ask you out but never had the courage? I was too scared you'd say no, what with your stupid infatuation with that Holmes guy. Also, I think you would've been a great addition to our research team. But, well, it was not to be…" Molly swallowed again and closed her eyes.

A sudden and loud sound made her open them again. Through her tears she could see the doors on the opposite wall fling open and immediately recognised the tall frame of the incoming man.

"If I were you,  _Philipp_ , I wouldn't move an inch. Because if you do I  _will_  kill you. Slowly." Sherlock's voice was coarse but he enunciated each word meticulously.

"Don't come closer. I warn you. I'll do it." Phil's other arm moved around her, he was now holding Molly in front of him like a shield. Sherlock stopped in his movement. Molly still couldn't see his face clearly. A few tense moments passed in silence.

Then, Sherlock spoke again. "Good, I'm staying here. But, don't you think it's a little cruel to kill doctor Hooper without telling her what you did and how you did it? Ah, don't bother, I'll quickly supply her with an overview, shall I?" He spoke quickly now, turning his face towards her for the first time since he had entered the morgue. Molly's tears had stilled enough for her to catch the concerned look on his face when his eyes met hers momentarily. She wondered how long he had been waiting outside these doors; he had at least been listening to a part of their conversation. Then, he resumed, "You and doctor Garrett injected pathologically mutated cells via vaccinations and thus infected healthy people with cancer to gain a higher number of cases for your illegal study testing a new and risky drug. Doctor Miller did the same in York and Leeds, as well as your  _colleagues_  in Cambridge. When the drug didn't work you had to get rid of any proof, so you killed them. The cancer patients in the study conveniently died on their own. You worked extra hours and scheduled the autopsies of certain patients so that no other pathologist could have a look at the bodies." Sherlock stopped speaking and eyed Phil.

When the detective made an attempt to step closer, Phil's grip became tighter and the scalpel pressed against the side of her throat again. Molly noticed that it broke skin and felt a small amount of blood tickle down her neck. Sherlock stopped immediately, his eyes fixed on her throat, and his jaw clenched.

"Phil, how do you think this will end?" Sherlock's voice was almost soft. "You cannot silently kill Molly anymore and let her body vanish or stash it with the others you've taken. By the way, nice touch - the stealing of the corpses. But there's only so much scientific knowledge you can gather from a dead organism. Trust me, I've tried… Anyway, the moment your scalpel cuts her carotid I will be at your side." He paused for a second and when he spoke again, his voice was deeper and infinitely more threatening. "And you will be very lucky if I only break your neck then. If you let go of her you will not only live but maybe you can cut a nice deal with the prosecution."

Molly felt Phil shift behind her. "Stand up," he whispered. Slowly and under the attentive eyes of Sherlock, both of them got off the floor. Still using her as a shield, the other pathologist dragged her further away from the dark haired detective.

"There is another thing I could do. I could just keep her for a bit." Molly understood as she recognised that Phil was slowly moving towards the back doors of the morgue. They led to a rarely used corridor. She knew that it was connected to the small basement garage of St. Bart's. He wanted to take her with him as a hostage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a medical expert but I have researched the vaccination/cancer thing briefly. The symptoms fit but I'm fairly sure that the 'modified-super-cancer'-bit is not actually reality (yet?) - I apologise. Just go with it for the sake of the story. It's fiction...


	19. Chapter 19

Slowly walking backwards, Molly looked at the scrutinising eyes of Sherlock again. He didn't look at her directly but his pupils flew between her throat, Phil's arms around her and the door behind them. She could see his mind racing. Assessing possibilities to intervene. The few seconds she had left in the room felt like minutes. Several ideas of how to overpower the other pathologist ran through her mind, but none seemed feasible. She wasn't able to move enough; Phil's grip was way too tight.

Molly felt Phil stop. With a small 'thud', his back came into contact with the swing door and he started to lean against it. Squeaking, it opened very slowly. Sherlock leaned in closer in reaction and Molly could see the concentration it took for him not to start running towards them.

"Oh no. You better stay there. Not one step. I will see your face through the glass in the door and if you come towards us she will die. I don't care for your threats,  _detective_. Your pet is going to be mine for now," Phil spat out, breathing heavily and smiling gruesomely.

Sherlock's jaw clenched. He was disgusted by the tone of the pathologist's voice and the violent sparkle in his eyes, appearing at his last sentence. His stomach felt weird when he processed the connotations of his words. He wanted to punch Phil. Punching had helped to numb the similar feeling that had arisen the day before during his talk with David. But, instead, he didn't move.

As Phil had almost completely opened the door and turned to move Molly's body slightly to be able to go out without loosening his grip or looking away from the other man, Sherlock said, "She's not my only pet you know." Then, an almost undetectable smile crossed his features.

Molly's brow furrowed in surprise but about half a second later, she understood.

"Hi, am I late to the party?" a warm voice asked from not more than three feet away. She couldn't see him because he was standing on a side of her attacker she couldn't overlook from her position between his arms. She didn't need to see him anyway, she already knew who it was. Quickly, Phil turned them around to use her as a barrier again. She was now looking into a pair of wide blue eyes. Cracking a greeting smile, John rapidly focused on Phil again. Molly could now see how close he really was. If she could have moved her arms she would have been able to touch him. In his hands, he held a gun pointed directly at the other man's face.

*

When Sherlock had announced he needed to go to St. Bart's and had swept out of the flat, John couldn't really understand his friend's logic but stood up anyway to follow him. When he was almost outside, he heard the detective shout back at him, "Bring your gun! Be quick." John was stunned but did as he was told and went into his room to fetch it. He actually had to run down the stairs and just barely made it into the cab Sherlock was already sitting in. Whenever this case was over he finally had to ask him about his cab hailing skills. This was getting ridiculous.

On the way to the hospital Sherlock had explained that he had found Phil's name on every questionable autopsy report. Also, the pathologist was working alongside Dr Garrett and had even offered Molly to introduce her to the researchers. John noticed the grim look that momentarily settled on his friend's face when he said, "I should have been more observant when he was talking to her."

"Okay. So, this Phil is involved. It's oh-so bad that you didn't deduce it from his suit yesterday night," John doubted Sherlock would hear the irony but put it in anyway, "but why are we rushing to the hospital like madmen now – with a  _gun_?," he added in a whisper so that the cabbie wouldn't hear him.

"I sent Molly a text earlier to enquire about her wellbeing and she told me that she went to Bart's today despite not having to work. I think she wants to get closer to Miller. Just now, I remembered the shift plan I passed by last week. Phil is working right now and not many people are in the hospital at the moment. Molly is not save. I have a bad feeling, John." During his little speech, Sherlock had stared out of the window gravely, not meeting the doctor's eyes.

So many things with his friend's sentences were just  _wrong_ ; John didn't know where to start. First of all, Sherlock had  _texted_  Molly. Just like this?  _Enquiring about her wellbeing, for heaven's sake_. Then, he usually didn't  _have bad feelings_  about something. Furrowing his brows, the blonde doctor looked at his friend who still looked out of the window.  _He is actually worried about her._

When they had arrived at the hospital, they went straight down to the morgue, suspecting it to be the likeliest place to find Molly. They walked down the corridor when Sherlock suddenly stopped and touched John's arm. "Something's wrong," he whispered, "Listen." At first, John couldn't hear anything, but when Sherlock said, "she's talking to someone and she's crying," he heard it as well. He wasn't sure if it was Molly, but a female voice was sobbing very quietly. They were still several feet away from the doors. Sherlock turned, leaned in close to John and ordered him to go around the back waiting in the corridor with the gun ready. He only nodded and left his friend in front of the morgue.

*

Some very tense seconds passed without anyone moving or speaking. Molly doubted that any of the men were even breathing during that time. Sherlock was the first to speak again. She could hear his voice getting closer with every word. He was walking towards them.

"I'm afraid to tell you, Philipp, that your chances of getting out of this situation are diminishing by the second. Would you do us all a favour and drop the scalpel already?" His voice sounded more stable than before and almost cheery. But, Molly knew Sherlock well enough by now to recognise the tiny signs of distress still showing. He usually didn't tend to phrase orders as questions. His footsteps, accompanying his words in the deadly silence of the morgue, could be heard clearly and Molly guessed he was now not more than ten feet away. She had been staring at John the entire time and studied his features; he didn't react to Sherlock's words. Instead, he just stared at Phil intently, pointing the gun calmly as if it was a natural thing to do. Phil finally shifted behind her.

"Lower the gun. I demand it," he said defensively while sliding the scalpel up her neck a bit. Her throat felt sore and it burned and she suspected the small wound had widened slightly. The sharp instrument was now resting right under her chin.

John chuckled silently. "Really?" he remarked, "do you expect that, because you  _demand_  it, I'll drop everything and let you leave with her? Surely, you cannot overestimate your persuasive power that much! Now, I honestly don't like to use this gun but another twitch of your fingers and poor Molly will have to wash pieces of your brain out of her hair later on."

Molly was shocked by John's words. She had never known the gentle doctor to be so intense. But, on the other hand, she thought, she had also never seen him in such a situation before. Maybe that was a frequent case-persona of his?

Sherlock had come even closer when he spoke again. "I would listen to the doctor. The  _army_  doctor, by the way. Not that it matters. While John is an excellent shot, I doubt that anyone would miss your head at that proximity. Also, he actually is very reluctant to kill people, which is good for you; I would have shot by now. Don't mistake it for weakness, though. If need be, he won't hesitate."

Molly felt one of her attacker's arms loosen around her. He seemed to finally understand the hopelessness of his situation. She was glad that he didn't seem so completely desperate not to care even for his own life anymore. In that case, she would be dead by now. She still watched John who started to relax a bit when he noticed Phil's movement but still kept a firm grip on his gun. Now, she heard the loud thumping of her heart again and suddenly felt dizzy. She was only half aware of Sherlock's steps coming closer tentatively.

The adrenaline rushing through her body made her brain work slowly which is why it took a long time for her to realise what was happening next. She heard a loud sound, some muttered swearwords and a scream. Suddenly, She felt her knees give in when something dragged at her from below; then she was thrown to the side and flinched as she expected to fall to the floor. Instead she felt something soft and warm that stopped her fall and kind of accompanied her down to the cold tiles of the morgue. Then she saw a lot of blood and closed her eyes in shock. All of this happened in less than two seconds. When she opened her eyes again, she was met with very wide, very icy ones, approximately four inches away.

"Molly," Sherlock all but screamed at her, "Molly, are you all right? Talk to me!" He recognised the panic in his voice with unease but didn't care for once. He grabbed her head and tore some hair away from her throat to have a close look at it.  _No damage to the carotid_ , he noticed,  _good_. Molly was half lying in his arms, still not answering and stared at him. She shuddered. Quickly, Sherlock moved away from her face and scanned her whole body. When he saw the small pool of blood forming at her legs, his eyes widened even more.

Everything had happened so fast. Just when Phil had been about to let go of Molly, Sherlock had heard a sound behind him. He'd turned just in time to see the doors on the other side of the room fly open. Professor Piers Miller himself suddenly stood in the room, rapidly getting aware of what was happening. In shock, Sherlock turned again and within a fraction of a second, several things happened. Firstly, he saw John look towards the sound of the doors opening. Secondly, in his peripheral vision, Phil and Molly vanished. Phil was ducking to move out of the fire line of John's gun and dragged her with him. Then, some movement Sherlock couldn't see properly and Molly was thrown towards him. He caught her and they immediately sunk to the floor together. She had screamed with a high-pitched voice. Another scream sounded; Sherlock had been sure it was John, and soon he heard the quick footsteps of someone running away.

Now, with Molly right next to him, he frantically tried to find the source of the blood. "Molly, say something, please. Did he cut you with the scalpel?" Sherlock removed the scarf from his neck as he spoke. Turning his head slightly with the motion, he realised that Piers Miller wasn't standing in the door anymore. He had probably run away. The detective didn't care.

Finally, Molly answered him at the same time as he found the spot where her trousers had been cut open. "Erm, I.. I think it's my thigh." She gestured towards her right leg. He already knew by then and started wrapping the scarf around it tightly. As he did it, he calmed down slowly.

"John, your ragged breathing tells me you're alive and that he hasn't punctured your lungs. Good. What's wrong with you? Do you need help?" he shouted towards the back corridor.

"My ears are fine as well," John started in a much quieter tone, "so no need to scream like that. I'll be okay. I'm bleeding quite a bit but he didn't get any internal organs." He paused for a bit and then added, "I'm so sorry I let him get away!"

"Don't be, I know where he's going!"


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock took great care bandaging Molly's leg with his scarf. Slowly, her brain started to work out what had happened. She was lying on the cold tiles and felt movement at her legs. Carefully, she raised her head to look at Sherlock. His face portrayed a concentrated and determined look. Then, Molly looked to the wound on her thigh and winced when she saw how the cloth was soaked with her blood. After Sherlock tied a knot directly over the wound he quickly proceeded to search for other, minor wounds on her body. His hands lightly ghosted over her leg. When he didn't find anything there, he continued with her other leg, beginning at her feet and working upwards quickly and unusually…  _gentle._ Molly involuntarily blushed when he reached her knee and his hands didn't stop there. She hoped he wouldn't notice but soon she saw his eyes roll and brows twitch in her peripheral vision. She wanted to say something but was lost for words, so she just lay there and waited for him to finish his examination.

Suddenly, John's appearance at the door interrupted the awkward silence. He held a hand tightly to his stomach and Molly could see that he must have lost a substantial amount of blood, but the wound had almost stopped bleeding already. Also, he could stand up straight and walk without major problems by the look of it.

"Oh god, John, you're all right," Molly heard herself say. Her voice sounded weak and as she tried to sit up, she felt dizzy and without her being able to stop it, she fell backwards again immediately. Preparing for the pain that would follow her head hitting the tiles, she closed her eyes in a reflex. But the pain didn't come. Sherlock had swiftly put a large hand behind her neck and guided her back to the ground. Surprised, Molly opened her eyes again and glared at him.

"Yes, he is, Molly. You, on the other hand, are only partly right. So please don't try to get up again." He looked grave and his jaw clenched. He avoided looking into her eyes. A silence that was a little too long for the situation followed. Molly noticed that Sherlock's hand was still holding her neck and his thumb began moving on her skin just the slightest bit.

As he didn't stop the movement or show any desire to say something else, Molly continued to stare at him.

"Err, yes… yes, I'm OK," the somewhat uncomfortable sounding voice of John cut through the pregnant silence, "Maybe I should… yeah, I'm calling a doctor for you… And I probably should get myself sorted as well…"

As quickly as his injury allowed, John walked to the exit at the opposite side of the room and entered into the corridor. Molly heard his footsteps become quieter and could also make out a distant 'hello?' as he tried to get someone's attention in the fairly deserted part of the hospital.

Sherlock was still silent and still avoided her gaze. Molly became nervous and, just when she wanted to say something, he moved the hand that wasn't holding her neck to her cheek. She felt incredibly hot all of a sudden. Then, his pupils, which had been inspecting the whole room constantly, settled on his hand on her face and he looked alarmed. The hand left her face, but even before Molly could feel disappointed about the loss of the comforting touch, she felt the hand tighten around her shoulder instead. There it rested while Sherlock remained mute. His eyes ceased observing their surroundings and now his gaze only jumped between her bloodied leg and some spot next to her head.

"Sherlock, I –"

"There will come someone to help you soon. Keep your eyes open."

*

_This is entirely my fault_. Sherlock felt nauseated when he saw the gash in Molly's leg and the steady bleeding. That was new. He'd never had problems with seeing blood. Still, he didn't let this distract him and made quick work tying his scarf so that the pressure point was most likely to stop her bleeding.

When he searched for other cuts on Molly, he finally processed his own state and was content not to notice any injuries. The only thing out of the ordinary was his heartbeat, which was still at a bit over 100 beats per minute. Normally, he would calm down quickly after a rush of adrenaline. Sherlock's inner listing of probable causes for his still elevated heart rate was interrupted when he felt Molly's weak thumping of blood through her unharmed leg speed up as well. This wasn't good. She needed to stay as calm as possible; otherwise she would suffer an unnecessary blood loss. When he saw her face redden, he understood and let go of her leg. He wanted to say something, tell her to calm down, but was simply not able to. It was as if the constant stream of thought was cut off from his vocal cords.

Then, John appeared and Sherlock quickly assessed his friend's injuries. He felt relieved when noticing no grave harm. Although there was a big cut covering his stomach area, it obviously wasn't very deep.

Sherlock noticed Molly move and speak. She tried to sit up but lacked the strength to hold her own body. Knowing that she would fall back even before she did, his hand darted behind her head and supported her neck when she lay back down. Finally, he spoke, telling her not to make effort trying to sit up.  _Really, the woman has a medical degree and fails to realise what to do when confronted with a serious amount of blood loss?_

When her head was safely back on the floor, Sherlock decided to keep holding her. Just in case. He wanted to be able to help her and it just felt so much safer like this.  _That's completely irrational_ , he scolded himself,  _Molly has lost a lot of blood, yes, but if she gets medical help soon and approximately eight to twelve stitches, she will most definitely be fine. Plus, holding her like an_ emotional _fool will not help her at all._

Still, he just couldn't bring himself to let her go. He was actually  _scared_  to. Plus, he found it made him somewhat calmer. His breathing slowed and he started to relax and drift off into his mind palace. Remembering and categorising everything that had happened, he noticed Molly get calmer as well. Her body warmth beneath him assured Sherlock.

Absorbing John's words helped Sherlock ground himself further. Knowing that medical help would come timely, he was able to completely dive into his thoughts. Phil and Piers Miller had vanished but the detective was fairly certain that he knew where they had gone. Scanning the room once again, he pieced the bits of information together again. There had definitely been a key ring amongst the belongings of Max Knight.  _This and his clothes, the distinct smell. Also, Phil's…_  Suddenly, Sherlock noticed his hand caressing Molly's cheek.  _What in the name of_ … He had no recollection of putting his hand there. Embarrassed and with a quick movement, he drew back and found another, safer, spot to rest his hand, carefully avoiding to look at her directly. He briefly thought about letting go of her altogether but dismissed the idea. What would she think if he were to move away so suddenly? But since when, exactly, did he care about what people thought? Before Sherlock could search for an answer, he heard Molly's voice.

"Sherlock, I-"

He didn't know why but he was afraid of what she was going to say. What if she addressed the weird closeness? All of a sudden, Sherlock felt miserable and painfully self-aware.

"There will come someone to help you soon. Keep your eyes open."

Before the pathologist could respond, they heard the door swing open and a paramedic hurried in.

"Oh, good. She lost 1.8 pints of blood and has almost lost consciousness twice. Get some A positive."

"How do you know-?" was all Molly could say before Sherlock abruptly stood up and left.

*

John was lying on his back and flinched when the needle penetrated his skin for the third time. He had refused any anaesthetic or pain medication because "I can't be clouded by that stuff, I need to be going with Sherlock as soon as this is done! Now go on and fix it." Mike Stamford, who had taken to stitching him up personally, only shrugged. He knew John well enough to know there was no way to convince him that this wasn't the best of ideas. Sherlock stood in the corner and grinned as he heard his friend's words. His clothes and hands were still covered in Molly's blood, as he hadn't bothered washing before he had hurried to find his friend. He scanned his red palms curiously.

John turned his head and looked at Sherlock. "Hey Romeo, care to tell me now where we'll be going?"

Mike raised an eyebrow at this but didn't say anything. Sherlock growled. Instead of giving an answer, he said, "I brought your gun. You left it in the back corridor." Mike's second brow darted up.

"John, you took a gun into the-"

"Relax, Mike, I didn't shoot it." And, as if that was enough compensation, he questioned Sherlock again, "so? Where did he go?"

Sherlock took out his phone and typed in a few things, looked at the screen and grinned. "Beefy Stuart's Beef," he said finally.

John waited a few seconds and, when his friend didn't say anything else, he asked, "Erm, maybe you could elaborate?"

"Beefy Stuart's Beef is, as the name strongly suggests, a meat market. To be clear, it  _was_  a meat market, with its own slaughterhouse. Alistair Stuart declared the business bankrupt a year ago. Since then, all his facilities are out of use."

"Oh, ok. And what makes you think that's where Phil went to?"

"The missing key, of course."

"Of course." John made sure to use his most sarcastic tone and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

The detective sighed before he resumed talking. "When I entered the morgue, I had a quick look at Max Knight's corpse and his belongings but didn't find anything particularly interesting, safe for the fact that he had obviously not been home for the last few days, he had shaved under a light he hadn't been used to and his posture was bent from sleeping on an unfamiliar surface. Ah, and the distinct smell of his clothes, of course. But then I saw Phil. The way he held himself told me that he had not slept well for the last four days, too – give or take a day. And his stubble was showing similar patterns as Knight's. They had shaved under the same light in front of the same, too small, mirror. They couldn't reach the left side of their faces properly."

"So they were in the same place."

"Yes. And this place is the former slaughterhouse of Mister Alistair 'Beefy' Stuart. See, the key ring in Knight's belongings... I didn't think anything of it at first. It's a bright yellow and the letters BSB are engraved. I had seen that Phil was carrying a key of a similar size in his trouser pocket but couldn't be completely sure it was the same. But, after Miller had interrupted and quickly left the scene, I knew it. He had helped me without meaning to. The old man was intelligent enough to steal the key after he had spotted it as well between Knight's clothes. By taking it, he gave me all the proof I needed. The slaughterhouse is their 'headquarters'. It's convenient, particularly as it's probably also where they hide the bodies."

Sherlock ended his little speech by showing the screen of his phone to John. It displayed the logo of Beefy Stuart's meat house, which was of a bright yellow.

Soon, Mike had finished stitching John up and told him to slowly try and stand. The blond man hopped off the slab and put on the fresh shirt Mike had brought him. It was too big but John didn't care. Sherlock had washed his hands but ignored his blood stained clothes.

"Shall we?" he asked his friend, "I already called Lestrade." He turned to leave.

When both men hurried along the corridors, John asked "Will Molly be OK?"

Sherlock nodded curtly "Yes."


	21. Chapter 21

"Okay, so do you have a plan for… for whatever happens now?"Sherlock and John sat in the cab together while the detective explained to his friend everything he had observed during his talk with Phil and later his escape.

"Yes. We go there, get in there, find the bodies, as well as Phil and Miller. Then, Phil will have an unpleasant accident and Miller will get arrested by Lestrade who will have met up with us beforehand." Sherlock said all of it very calmly and matter-of-factly. John frowned.

"An  _unpleasant accident_? Sherlock, you cannot… Lestrade will-"

"Don't be afraid, I will not kill him. Well, I'm not planning to at the moment." Sherlock's expression was one of pure hate.

John opened and closed his mouth several times, unsure of how to say what he was going to say delicately. "So, you really like her, then?"

Sherlock didn't react right away. He wanted to respond with one of his typical condescending phrases to somehow distract from the real gravity behind John's question. But, for once he thought about his words before they came out and did not want to say something he would later regret.

"He was going to kill her, John."

"Look, I know I said you should leave her alone and all. But if you really-"

"John, I… could we discuss this later, please?"

He really wanted to discuss it with John. He wanted to know how to get rid of these unwelcomed emotions. After trying to deal with everything himself, he had to give in and admit that simply avoiding the thought of Molly wasn't going to work, she was always coming back in his, sometimes rather inappropriate, dreams. Well, maybe if he gave it some more time? Anyway, this was not the best of times to give the doctor an insight into his hear- … into his thoughts. For now, the weird feelings of attachment were not helpful in bringing this case to an end. But, no matter how much he tried, Sherlock couldn't completely shake away Molly's scared face and her crouched body on the cold floor, the scalpel so close to her throat. If he had come only minutes later…

John saw his friend visibly, almost violently, shake his head then. It probably was for the best not to dive into the topic again. He was astounded that Sherlock had put him down by merely delaying the conversation. And he'd even said 'please'. Was he actually willing to talk to John about all of it? That must have been a first.  _But then again_ , John thought,  _Sherlock having_ girl trouble _in general is a first. Maybe he is the chatty type in this singular thematic sphere?_ The blond man highly doubted it, though.

*

Three streets away from Beefy Stuart's slaughterhouse, Sherlock told the cabby to stop and paid him. When they had gotten out, they were greeted by a shyly smiling Greg Lestrade. He looked as if he couldn't quite believe he'd been invited to tag along with them.

"Hello boys. Here at your call. Now, where do we start?"

John gave Sherlock a sideway glance and raised an eyebrow. And, as if to answer the unspoken question of his friend, Sherlock said, "they are both potentially violent. We'll be quicker if we outnumber them. Plus, Lestrade is the only one of the Yard bunch who can manage to sport a minimum level of subtlety, we don't need a fuss."

Lestrade looked proud at Sherlock's words and had obviously decided to only hear the positive parts of his statement. Although, he added, "you do realise I could get in a lot of trouble, coming here without any backup? If something goes wrong, we-"

"Well, gentlemen, let's start. The back entrance will be most convenient." With that, Sherlock put up his collar to compensate for his now missing scarf and started walking towards the meat market's slaughterhouse. The alleys were small in this outer part of Croydon and it was beginning to get dark. John glanced at his watch as he briefly thought back on the eventful day they'd had. 5.47 pm.

*

Molly felt blissfully numb as a nurse put bandages around her freshly stitched up thigh. She had to have been unconscious for half an hour, maybe. Her eyes wandered to her right hand and she could see the canula attached to her with tape. She followed the little tube until she found the bottle of morphine it was attached to. A wry smile spread across Molly's face, although she had no idea  _why_ she smiled. "That must bee a generous 'mount of morpheene you've given meee…haha."

The nurse only simpered and nodded before resuming her work. When she was finished, she said, "so, Dr Hooper, that's it. I'll leave you to rest now," and exited the room. Molly smiled weakly in response and turned her head a bit. Only now did she see the pile of clothes on the small dresser next to her bed. Her trousers were destroyed completely. Not only were they soaked with blood but also large cuts had separated the material in several places. The paramedic had probably done this to have better access to her wound. On top of the pile was something dark. Only after some moments of intense staring did Molly recognise what it was. Sherlock's scarf.

Molly was sure the drugs were enhancing her emotions, but all of a sudden she felt pleasantly warm and she recalled Sherlock's face hovering above her. She knew he'd been genuinely scared. Remembering his hands on her legs made her shiver. Sherlock caring for her; he looked so raw and… vulnerable. It was almost too much for Molly to bear. Could it be that he actually - ?  _No, don't think that, do_ not _entertain these thoughts. You only_ wish _for him to feel that way for you_. It somehow made it worse to see what he could be like – so gentle. Getting a glimpse of the soft side of Sherlock but knowing that he would never truly be able to feel what she wanted him to feel for her; it somehow was worse than being confronted with a cold and uncaring man. A few silent tears streamed down her cheeks before she fell asleep. Her exhaustion and the drugs took over.

*

When the three men arrived at a small but thick steel door at the back of the slaughterhouse, Sherlock took out a tiny pin, prepared to pick the lock. But, when he leaned on the door for support, it gave way and swung open with a silent squeal. "That's a bit careless, isn't it?" John asked no one in particular. With a slightly surprised look on his face, Sherlock nodded and led the way into the building.

They entered into a dark corridor. No noises could be heard when they carefully approached another door. This one wasn't made of steel but was bigger than the first. Sherlock stopped in front of it and gestured for everyone to be extremely quiet. Through a small slit at the bottom, a peculiar light shone through into the dark corridor.  _Not cast by an ordinary bulb_ , Sherlock thought,  _narrow pattern of shadows probably several neon tubes_.  _It's very bright in this room_.

Gingerly, John put his ear to the door in an attempt to listen to possible goings-on on the other side. Looking at his friend and the DI after half a minute, he shook his head. Sherlock nodded again and looked at the handle of the door in front of him. He whispered one word before grabbing it.

"Guns."

Greg and John immediately put a hand to their waists to take out their guns determinedly. At the same time, Sherlock slowly opened the door, keenly peaking and wanting to find out what waited on the other side. Half of him wanted to find the room deserted and empty while the other half ached to find Phil waiting with a weapon, giving him an excellent excuse to attack him and break his neck.

What he found, however, wasn't Phil or Miller but made him breath in sharply, nonetheless. Sherlock Holmes was astounded – for the first time in a long while. Only after a few seconds he felt the cold. It was colder than outside in there, he estimated the temperature to be about six degrees Celsius. Lestrade and John had settled on either side of him and were looking around with big eyes and open mouths. Their exhaled breaths formed little clouds in front of their faces.

The men had entered not a room but a big hall, white tiles on the floor but only small windows at an unusual height, probably ten to twelve feet up. Despite the small windows, the hall was lit brightly by many neon tubes, which were dangling from the high ceiling. The atmosphere was very sterile.

The disused main hall of the slaughterhouse had been converted into a state of the art laboratory. High tech microscopes, some ultrasonic devices and even a mass spectrometer sat on big desks lining the walls. In the middle of the hall, three metal slabs had been assembled. Next to each was a small tray with a standard set of surgical instruments. Also, on one of those slabs lay the reason the men were all taken aback: the corpse of a dead child, a young girl not older than eight. Sherlock heard John swallow thickly next to him.

"This is where they experiment on the bodies, then," Lestrade said with a slightly shaking voice.

"You haven't eaten for at least nine hours," Sherlock answered, his eyes already darting around the room, having regained his calm appearance. Both the DI and John looked at him with raised brows. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we were playing a game of 'state the obvious facts'".

"Sherlock, don't you have any-?" John bit out a little too harshly.

"Be quiet, John," Sherlock whispered as he tentatively walked over to the corpse. Something was odd. When he was getting closer, he could see that someone had started to perform an autopsy on the girl. Her chest had been cut already but the ribcage had not been completely opened. Whoever did this was distracted after beginning the procedure.

*

Molly had slipped into a weird dream. Everything seemed blurred and what she saw was either too dark or too bright, even though she couldn't make out any source of light. She didn't know where she was; it wasn't a room but also not outside. In a filmic fashion, several scenes played in front of her.

First, it was some medley of all her dates with David; then his shocked face when he had been confronted with Sherlock and her in the dark lab. It hovered motionless in front of her eyes like it was the cliffhanger scene in a bad soap opera.

Next, she saw Phil threatening her. It was similar to what had actually happened in the morgue. But everything happened faster and every movement and expression was exaggerated. Also, instead of a scalpel, he was holding a big gun (one of those Molly knew from James Bond films) to her head.

Suddenly, Sherlock and John appeared. John was dressed in an army uniform and was carrying a ridiculously big machine gun. Sherlock wore his usual trousers and a blue shirt, which was, however, torn and hanging open in several well-placed regions. The picture of both men being another cliffhanger in her mental film, the scene changed again.

Now, Sherlock was holding her bridal style and carrying her around, apparently without a destination. He simply stared at her and looked delicious doing it. Slowly, her vision got blurred again before everything slipped away and Molly continued sleeping dreamlessly.

*

As Sherlock was standing in front of the corpse, the other men came closer to the slab as well, Lestrade not quite able to look at the dead girl. John, having assimilated to and absorbed some of Sherlock's behaviour, also started scanning the body as well as all the surroundings. "The corpse has not been lying here for long. It was stored in a much colder place until very recently," he stated.

"That's what I thought as well. Which leaves two questions: Where is the body, as well as all the others, usually stored? And where is the person who put it here - and started cutting it open - now?"

"One of the answers is quickly given. The person is here!" The voice Sherlock heard entirely too close behind him was unfamiliar but nonetheless he knew who it had to be. This was exactly how he had imagined the voice of Piers Miller to sound like. John and Lestrade turned around instantly, readying their guns. However, they were met with Phil, Miller and a third man, all with guns of their own, already pointed at each of the three other men's faces.

"As for the second question concerning the whereabouts of the other corpses," Miller continued, "rather soon you will find that out as well!"


	22. Chapter 22

"Do you think a gun pointed to my face scares me?" Sherlock told Miller as he quickly took in all of his opponents and examined their statures to find weaknesses he could exploit in a possible fight. The overweight old man gave away so many of them; the detective didn't know where to begin filing them away. Miller wouldn't have the ghost of a chance. If only there was a way to disarm him, and, more importantly, the fitter younger men.

"Not really. Phil tells me you are quite laid-back about your own safety. Also, it's a bit unfair, you're not armed." With that, Miller withdrew a bit. Sherlock exhaled unnoticeably. But, after a second, the old man raised his gun again and aimed it at John who had frozen mid-movement. His own half-raised gun was now hanging loosely between his fingers. The blond doctor raised an eyebrow at this but didn't seem particularly bothered.

"Well, now that you have  _two_  weapons aimed at me… That's a real game changer," he deadpanned. Sherlock, however, became slightly more concerned, quickly glancing at his friend. Phil, also threatening John with his gun and obviously enjoying the reversed roles, only showed an ugly grin. A small pause followed and everybody's attention shifted back to Piers Miller, as he was obviously the one in charge of the situation.

"Erm, I don't want to be too nosy but I'm sure I'll receive the 'you will die presently' speech soon so I think I can have this one. Who the hell is this?" Sherlock asked with a nod to the third man pointing his gun at Lestrade.

"You brought a playmate," Miller said, looking at Lestrade, "so I brought one as well. That's Sergej. Don't mind him. He's not the most responsive type. I think it's mostly due to the fact that his English is limited to ordering beverages and finding his way to the nearest train station."

"Thanks. If he somehow manages to get away we'll make sure to send the police looking for him in pubs near King's Cross."

Everyone, except for Sergej, looked at Sherlock then. Lestrade and John didn't quite manage to keep a straight face even though they were aware that Sherlock's sarcastic comment was rather misplaced in the situation. Miller and Phil, however, looked very arrogant. "You have absolutely no chance of getting out of here alive – I guess this is the start of the speech for you then - and you still make plans on catching the fleeing  _bandits_?" Phil spat the last word. "You're unbelievable, Holmes. I never understood why all these people take every word that comes out of your mouth as prayer. Oh, it makes me sick how they admire you. Which reminds me, how's Molls? When I was leaving you she was bleeding quite a bit and-"

"How do you think all of this will work out for you?" Sherlock asked Miller, pointedly ignoring Phil. "There is a mountain of evidence proving how you performed ghastly experiments on living persons and killed them when your glorious new cancer cure didn't work. A lot of people know about it by now, you won't gain anything by killing us. Your reputation is destroyed, no matter what."

"As unfortunate as it is, you are right in one thing. I can't go on with everything  _here_. But there are investors in the pharmaceutical industry in many countries, gentlemen. I have already collected my population sample and prepared everything. All I need to do now is take the extracted samples and specimen from the…  _test objects_  and set up a new laboratory elsewhere. There are so many governments that are less narrow-minded than the British. Just think about the opportunities, the many people who will be saved by my drug-"

"Oh, just stop it. I might vomit from this cliché of a last speech. Yes, yes, you only meant to be healing the world; we ought to be thankful and so on. Of course, you're not just doing it for the _obscene_  amount of money you'll get when selling the final drug… Could you just get it over with and shoot us, please?"

"SHERLOCK!" John and Lestrade both screamed at the dark haired man next to them. Miller seemed unimpressed.

"Relax. We're not going to shoot you. Well not if you behave, that is. This room is sterile; I don't want a blood bath in here. Plus, I promised you would find out where my bodies are… Slowly put down your guns and turn around," Miller said. John made a grimace when the old man said 'my bodies'. He carefully lowered his hand and laid the gun down, Lestrade doing the same. When the older man nodded towards them, they did as they were told and turned. John gave Sherlock a look that said 'So, any ideas,  _genius_?' Sherlock's answering gaze showed his 'bored' expression - maybe the doctor was not as good in reading his friend's face as he previously thought…  _Or maybe his 'bored' look happens to be the same as his 'not a fucking clue' look_.

*

A few minutes later, Sherlock, John and Lestrade had been led into a big room, which was, unpleasantly, much colder than the hall they had been caught in. This was obviously a huge walk-in freezer. It had no windows; plain white tiles covered the high walls and there was only one exit. Miller and the other two men had stood by the solid door, taken their coats (at which Sherlock scowled and thus showed the first emotion since they had been confronted) and sent them to the far end of the room when he unceremoniously announced, "Look around and you will find what you came for. And now, it's goodbye Mr Holmes. You know, they say freezing to death is not that bad." With that, he slowly walked out backwards, making sure to keep his gun pointed at them until he was out and Sergej shut the big door. They heard the loud 'thunk' of the lock.

They didn't have to do much looking around, as the bodies could not be missed. Big steel shelves lined three of the walls and were stacked with, well, roughly human-sized boxes. Some were made of wood, some of hard plastic, and, in a few cases, Sherlock did even recognize coffins from the photos he had scanned. More gruesomely, there were also some bodies lying out in the open, on tables in front of one of the shelves. Autopsies had already been performed on them. "I suspect we're where they stack the ones they are done with," Sherlock concluded while taking in the details of the room calmly. He took his phone out of his pocket –  _no signal, of course_ …

"So much for the obvious facts game," Lestrade said, "and, uh, if I may add one: it's damn cold!"

Faint sounds and rummaging could be heard coming from the direction of the main hall they had just been in. Miller and his accomplices were probably packing stuff and preparing to leave.

"Minus 25 degrees Celsius, to be precise," Sherlock added.

"Come on, Sherlock," John frowned, "this is not a good time to boast. So, the great consulting detective can deduce the flipping temperature in the room in which we're going to die. What the fuck are we going to do now?"

"I can't." Sherlock said, his eyes still searching the room. John shot him a questioning look, his breath starting to leave him in small shudders. "Well, at least not to the exact degree. There's a thermometer next to the door," Sherlock pointed in the general direction, "I'd say, without our coats, we'll survive for about two hours."

"So, my question remains – what the FUCK are we going to do NOW?" John steadily lost his patience. Usually not one for panicking, he started to worry that Sherlock might finally be at his wits' end.

"Erm, we could… stand closer to each other, maybe, uh… hold each other? I mean, you know, with our combined body warmth we'll survive longer until someone finds us," Lestrade suggested shyly. Both Sherlock and John turned to him with knitted brows. They said nothing and stared at him unbelievingly. "Or, we could not do that," the DI concluded, then.

The noise from outside had stopped. The other men had obviously finished gathering their probes and were at least on their way to leave, if not already gone.

"I'll pretend that Greg didn't just suggest to cuddle and search the door for weaknesses," John said and started striding over to it. Lestrade looked slightly hurt and ashamed. "Didn't you hear the sound when it closed, John? It's clearly very massive and not at all penetr-", Sherlock suddenly stopped talking and cocked his head to the side.

"The face. Finally," John exhaled. The doctor was almost violently shaking now. He knew the hypothermia would get the better of the men way before they were actually going to die. They would get slow and saggy and eventually start hallucinating. The faster they would work out a plan to escape the better.

"Excuse me, what about his face?" Lestrade was confused.

"He's got an idea."

"Hm, something like it at least," Sherlock chimed in, "if they left some drugs or chemicals in here I could try to prepare some concoction. Depending on what they have a strong acid to dissolve the inside of the lock. Or," and now Sherlock's eyes sparkled, "maybe I could induce a small explosion. If there is medical equipment in here, there should be some potassium permanganate and glycerol. If I mix them, they should at least generate a lot of heat and-"

"Really, Sherlock," John interrupted him, not fully convinced, "even if there are some chemicals in here, the conditions are less than perfect and you're not MacGyver."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, making his way to a corner of the room where a large cubic box was standing.

"Urgh, never mind," John decided to educate his friend about the TV hero later on - if there was a later on. As he didn't have a better idea, he started to help Sherlock in his search for any chemicals or implements. Even though the dark haired man had not been shaking as much as the others, John had noted Sherlock's lips starting to turn blue. They needed to be quick. The doctor felt his legs become heavier as well, the cold creeping into every muscle. Lestrade had also started to walk around the room, although he did it half-heartedly.

"Guys, look at you. John, you can't actually walk straight anymore and Sherlock, you're even paler than usual. We were trained for situations like this and the behaviour offering the highest chance to survive is just trying to stay warm and waiting for rescue."

John shook his head. It wasn't like the DI to be so, for lack of a better word, cowardly. He was very close to telling him this, but instead opted for a more diplomatic, "why do you think someone will come to free us? No one even knows we're here and the neighbourhood is deserted." Lestrade only made a tortured face and resumed scanning the room.

In the meantime, Sherlock had been erratically searching the box. His disappointed face told John enough. "No luck?" he still asked his friend.

"Only a medium sized flask."

"Well, we have the container. All we need is to find some things to mix in it."

All of a sudden, there was a noise. A loud noise. Something rattled directly in front of the door. The three men stopped all movement abruptly and turned their heads in the direction.

"What's that?  _Who_ 's that?" John asked no one in particular, trying to keep his voice down. Nevertheless, Sherlock felt obliged to answer. "I don't have enough information on the acoustics of the building to suggest the identity or even the stature of the person."

John rolled his eyes at which Sherlock whispered venomously, "well, maybe it's your Scottish friend, MacSomething."

"It's MacGyver, Sherlock and he is not-"

"Guys. Stop it!" Lestrade interrupted. At that moment the door clicked open. "It's… well. Someone  _did_  know we were here."

All of them turned to see who had come in and Sherlock scowled. "Oh great, it's our Australian  _friend_. I would have preferred MacGregor."

"If you don't want to be rescued by me you're free to stay, Holmes," David said with a wide smile. Sherlock grumbled silently and shot an accusing look towards Lestrade.  _So that's why he just wanted to wait. He knew there was someone coming. Always something I miss…_

"What? Did you think I would just hurry and confront a violent criminal with you without a plan B. I'm not  _that_  dumb. He's the only backup, though. So, you'll have to wait for your shock blanket for a bit." Lestrade grinned and waved his hands towards the exit. "Let's get out, shall we?"


	23. Chapter 23

Grumpily, Sherlock had followed the other men outside, his mood only heightened by the fact that he'd found his beloved coat discarded in the main hall. Now outside, still shivering, but clad in their warmer gear again, the consulting detective, John, Lestrade and David stood and discussed how to proceed.

"Did you overhear them talking? Have they dropped a hint as to where they are heading?" Lestrade asked David as Sherlock wandered away from the group holding his phone in front of him, trying to get a signal.

"Well no," David answered the DI, "but I've got something even better." With that, the agent put a hand in the pocket of his trousers and withdrew it holding a device with a small screen. "I've placed a tracker on the younger guy's car." The agent smiled winningly.

Lestrade looked at him. "Really?" The words 'since when does the government train their war machines in thinking as well?' clearly showed on his expression but he didn't say them out loud. He just added, "great. Does this thing tell us where they are going then?"

The agent nodded and pushed a button on the black apparatus. A black and white map of Greater London appeared on the screen. A few moments later, a dot showed up, depicting the position of the tracker. John looked over the shoulders of the taller men and put in some effort not to look idiotic doing it. Sherlock was still pacing a few feet away from the group. He had finally managed to connect his phone to the Internet and was frantically searching for something, typing quickly. He started talking, "we wouldn't have needed the tracking device, it's quite clear where they are going now. John, Lestrade, didn't you listen to what Miller said, and then the thing with Sergej. It's obvious that-"

"They are heading back inside town." David interrupted the start of what was to become one of the more elegant amongst Sherlock's deductions. The dark haired man frowned and was about to chastise the other man for interrupting when he processed his words. He raised an eyebrow at the meaning and seemed a little surprised by it. "They're going into town again? But they shouldn't be!"

"Hm, well," Lestrade chimed in, "I better call the Yard. Get someone to pick us up and call for a team to be sent to wherever they are going." He grinned a little. "It seems we're wrapping this up pretty easily. I guess I'll have to thank you David. Sometimes, the fancy government technologies and gadgets are actually helping." David smiled broadly and Sherlock made a face. John could see his friend's brain working rapidly behind his eyes. Something was bothering him – apart from the presence of David.

*

When Lestrade had called his colleagues several minutes passed without proper conversation. Every now and then David announced the current position of Phil's car and every time Sherlock's frown deepened. When the tall blonde man said, "they're crossing the Thames on Blackfriars bridge now," it was too much for the consulting detective.

"We cannot wait for your people to pick us up, Lestrade. John and I will go for a cab. Come on."

"Will we?" Only after he said this, John recognised that Sherlock was already running from the others in a direction - the doctor hoped - of a main street. He didn't really think it likely to get a cab around here. But John had stopped questioning why he was following his friend everywhere quite a while ago. So he ran as well. In the distance, he heard Lestrade scream, "but you don't know where they-"

"I do," Sherlock yelled back before turning a corner and escaping the other men's view.

After what seemed like ages, but was probably not more than five minutes, of running Sherlock suddenly came to a halt and raised an arm. John took another half a minute to catch up with him and when he arrived at his friend's side Sherlock was already holding the door of a cab open for him to jump in.

Breathing heavily, while Sherlock's respiration seemed only slightly elevated, John climbed in. "Sherlock, what… where?" The dark haired man ignored him and barked out a quick "St. Bart's hospital, quickly," to the cabbie. John raised an eyebrow in question at that.

"Sherlock-?"

"Just a minute, John." Sherlock pulled out his phone and pressed against the screen with more pressure than necessary. Only when he raised the phone to his ear did John understand that he was calling someone.  _Well, that's rare._

*

Molly was still in a small room with Mike Stamford having just finished the tumutltuous story of this afternoon's happenings and their background when her phone rang.

"Sherlock! What happened? How's John? Where are-?"

"Is Mike still with you?"

"Err, yes, he is. How are-"

"Good. Take him with you. The two of you need to go to your office immediately and lock the door. Then you will look under your desk. You'll find a machete taped to it.  _Don't_  touch the blade – it's dowsed in Curare. Remove it and attack anyone who forces their way in."

"When did you store a –"

"No questions now. Did you understand everything?"

"Yes, but-"

"I'll get back to you."

Molly stared at her phone and turned to Mike. "Um… we need to go to my office. I'll tell you when we're there." She was worried. Sherlock's voice had sounded strange. He had been trying to talk calmly but she'd heard the effort this had taken.

*

John's eyebrows had almost connected with his hairline when he'd overheard his friend's call. And it wasn't even the tropical weapon the detective had hidden in Molly's office that surprised him. After all, the doctor had once found a basket housing a poisonous snake under his bed. No, it was the fact that Sherlock Holmes had just acted out of worry for another person. It was rather unlikely that Phil, Miller and that weird other man would come back to Bart's just to gruesomely murder the small pathologist. Like Sherlock had told them, there was no use in trying to eliminate witnesses as the information had already spread amongst government forces. But, John mused, they might think they'd have a little more time if everyone knowing about their very violent tendencies from first hand experience wouldn't be able to warn the officials. And, so far, only a few people knew that they planned to get out of Britain. Now, John was also worried.

The cab ride was mostly silent. Suddenly, Sherlock's phone rang. He looked at the screen and when he saw the name of the caller he wordlessly handed it to the doctor. When he grabbed the phone, John saw that it was Lestrade and answered it.

"Greg."

"He knew they were going to Bart's, right?"

"Yes. Are you on your way yet? Are there some forces close enough that you could send. Molly is still there. She might be in danger and-"

"Calm down, John. David is just on the phone with the hospital security. When we saw that they were heading that way we immediately called. They stopped the car a street away though. It hasn't moved since. I called the Yard for CCTV coverage." John could faintly hear the sound of several voices and car doors being slammed shut. They were finally picked up. He looked over to Sherlock who had heard and nodded, barely relaxing.

John hung up shortly after and waited for Sherlock to say something but the consulting detective kept silent. A text message interrupted the staring battle that had transpired between the men.

_CCTV in Bart's shows them in garage, then in morgue. Grabbed a bag and left again. Security too slow. No sign since. Trace lost after. Going there now. Where are you?- Greg_

John scowled. "So they must have found the tracker and changed cars or something. Shit." When Sherlock had read the message, he turned to the cabbie and announced, "new plans. Heathrow please." Slowly, his usual smug expression was returning. Sherlock apparently felt that he was controlling the situation again. He typed in a quick text message before putting his phone away.

"What-?"

"I was wondering all along why they would head back into town. Missed something again. I should have noticed to bag when we were still in the morgue." He frowned at that. "I looked up some things when you were engaging in  _small talk_  with Lestrade and that other idiot in front of the slaughterhouse. There's only one way out of the country that matches with the vast amount of information Miller gave me."

"Vast amount?" John wondered if he had been unconscious for some time because he couldn't really recall the part where Miller had revealed a detailed summary of his travel plans to the consulting detective.

Sherlock grinned and John steeled himself for the deduction that was to come. "Sergej," the taller man started, almost as if that would explain something in itself. "As I'm sure you've noticed his name is very Eastern European. I assume he has been sent by Miller's confederates to ensure the smooth passage of the samples. Eastern Europe, however, is rather big. But Sergej has pretty bad teeth and I recognised a certain type of dental filling I had once seen on a corpse in a case involving the Russian mafia. These sorts of fillings were only common until 1985 in Russia, Poland, Slovakia, Ukraine, Moldova, and Romania. Further, their travel time cannot exceed roughly four to five hours, including the way to the airport and transportation in the country they're heading to. The samples will be destroyed if they are not cooled for longer than that. So, we can exclude every flight – which would have to be a direct one, of course - that would take longer than three hours. Thus, Russia, Moldova and Romania don't make it through to the next round." A little smirk crossed Sherlock's features there as he was obviously pleased with his reference to  _pop culture_. "That leaves Poland, Slovakia and Ukraine. Miller wasn't only talking about  _any_  partners in another country; he implied that he was operating under the knowledge of - more likely directly for – the local government. This requires the government to have the funds to support him and also to  _not_  have too many moral concerns. Poland is too democratic and Slovakia too small and poor. Which leaves us with Ukraine. Flights to the East of the country would take too long, so somewhere near the Western border it is. The only direct flight from London to that area leaves from Heathrow in an hour and will land in the beautiful town of Lviv two hours and forty-six minutes later. Although I suspect they'll be a bit faster than that - favourable winds." With that, Sherlock elegantly extricated his phone from his coat and showed John the screen with the flight information.

"Um, yeah. That was pretty good!"

*

Molly was standing in her office with Mike. After she had told him what Sherlock had said, neither of them hesitated and she had a pretty good idea why she was to hide here. They had somehow lost Phil and Piers Miller. Sherlock had reason to believe that they were coming back. She felt excited and her heart was beating fast but she found that she wasn't really scared.

She had found the machete under her desk and made a mental note to ask further about it at a more appropriate time. Neither of them dared to say something and when Molly's text alert beeped loudly, Mike jumped in an undignified manner.

_No immediate danger. Lestrade will be with you shortly. Please reattach machete to underside of your desk, officials would not be overly enthusiastic about it. - SH_

*

When Sherlock and John were walking into the big building, the taller man immediately walked up to a man that obviously belonged to the security services of the airport and showed him something he'd retrieved from his coat pocket. When John had caught up with him he managed to overhear the last part of the short conversation.

"Oh, of course, Detective Inspector. Please, just follow me," the man in the dark jacket said. Then he turned to a wireless set and spoke again, "Oi, Jamie. Coming through to the other side of Gate 16 now. Police are here, some guys on the run."

John rolled his eyes and turned to his friend as they walked behind the security worker. He started silently, "so when is the  _real_  Detective Inspector turning up? I'm not comfortable with getting into an airport by pretending to be a member of the police force. We're a potential terror threat, Sherlock."

"Oh, don't be so overly dramatic."

"I'm not, I'm just not keen on getting arrested. So, did Lestrade already answer?"

"Answer what? Why do you think he is coming? I doubt that he deduced as much as I did."

"But, you sent him a text message earl-"

"No, I didn't."

"You  _didn't_?... You didn't." John inhaled deeply to refrain from screaming at Sherlock right there. "Yeah, why would I even think that you would be so foolish as to count on help from the  _actual_ police? But who…?" Then he understood, " _oh_!"

"You wish to comment?" Sherlock's voice told him to do anything  _but_  comment.

Before John could comment nonetheless, they were entering the Gate area through a side door. Sherlock immediately scanned the room. The security guard was gone to talk to a woman behind a counter and John, also searching the room and awkwardly trying to blend in, whispered, "what are we going to do if they show up?"

" _When_  they show up we will of course stop them from taking the plane and arrest them."

"But  _how_?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock opened his coat and John saw a gun sticking out of his friend's jacket. A gun he'd never seen before.

"Sher… You've got to stop doing that. One day Lestrade will press charges."

"It isn't Lestrade's. It's David's. I took it off him when he was busy explaining to you how his tracking device worked. And seeing as he's brought it from Australia not entirely legally, he won't report it missing." Sherlock was obviously very pleased with himself and John decidedly didn't want to do him the favour and ask how he knew that. It wasn't the time anyway. Sherlock suddenly went still and subtly gestured in the direction of the glass windows. Piers Miller, Phil and Sergej were walking along a corridor, heading for the Gate. They hadn't seen the detective and the doctor yet and Sherlock quickly positioned himself behind a pillar nodding to John.

The doctor calmly went over to the security guard. Even though he and Sherlock hadn't arrived at an agreement of how to proceed, everything came naturally. John was almost in soldier-mode and movements followed automatically. Without being aware of it, he and Sherlock acted in synch from now on.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologise enough for the long wait. SORRY GUYS! Everything's all haywire and way too unpredictable in my life... Without much talk, there you go. I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and just as a quick reminder: I still don't own any characters of BBC's Sherlock.

The Gate area wasn't crowded. It was good, John wouldn't want to put any more people than strictly necessary in danger. But it was also bad, they could be spotted by Miller and his accomplices any time now as they were rapidly getting closer.

The doctor told the woman behind the counter to discreetly remove some people from the middle of the waiting area. It was important to be as cautious as possible. A panic amongst the passengers was not very desirable. He remembered one of Sherlock's rants about  _common people_  and the complications that arise when they are involved in arrests and/or shootings.  _Too many unknown variables_. Thus, he had a pretty good idea how Sherlock would proceed. He'd try to knock out at least one of them without much fuss, buying him, John, time to chime in. By the time the third noticed, hopefully, they'd already be under control. Well, that was the theory.

John turned to the guard, put on some military demeanour and did his best to slip into a character he imagined being authoritatively  _police-like_. He didn't know anyone in the force who actually behaved like this, at least not around Sherlock who constantly outsmarted everyone.

"Our targets are arriving. Don't look over too obviously please. We don't have any backing at the moment, so you may have to help us keeping them in check. They are three armed men and we are only two."

The guard nodded gravely and looked at John as if he awaited further instruction. Of course, the doctor could not really provide any such thing. After all, he had never led a  _crime fighting task force_. He knew Sherlock was able to deal with three opponents on his own but John was worried about all the people waiting in the gate area. His friend's fights were usually not spectator-friendly.

"Err," he started, "right, my, um, my  _partner_ ," _too much Lethal Weapon, John_ , "… my colleague will try to overpower one or two of them when they don't expect it. I will try to get the third one. You will need to watch out for the, uh, the civilians. Get them out of the way and make sure they have some cover. Can you do that?" John felt a bit stupid but the guard only nodded along. Out of the corner of his eye, the doctor could see Miller and Phil with Sergej trailing behind. They were coming closer and closer. Soon they would take notice of him.

Slightly turning and glancing at where Sherlock was hiding, he continued, "Only interfere in the fighting, or whatever is to take place, if you are sure of what you're doing and consider it safe." Another nod and he went off towards a group of people gathered in a corner.

"All right," John sighed, put a hand to his gun and ducked behind the counter. He could overlook the entrance to the gate and saw the consulting detective leaning not even ten feet away from it behind a pillar. His posture was overly relaxed but his jaw was clenched and he stared at John and waited for the doctor to give him a sign when the other men entered. Still, none of them had noticed anything was wrong. Miller was smiling smugly and carrying a big hardtop case.

Shortly before they entered John quickly nodded to his friend and vanished completely behind the counter. The last thing he saw was the appearing gleam in Sherlock's eyes.

_.:0:._

John had given him a sign and immediately after, Sherlock heard the door to the gate open. It was rather close and he was now waiting patiently for the three men to come in. The voices and shifting of weight told him that Phil was the first at the door and was holding it open for Miller. The slightly laboured breathing of the overweight old man was clearly audible now. More shifting and then the door closed again. The breathing grew louder and Sherlock smirked when he realised they were walking directly towards the pillar. Just like he'd expected.

The first man sliding into Sherlock's view was Miller. He walked by the pillar without turning around, not seeing the detective. Good, he was not a first priority to bring down. Phil and Sergej were more dangerous. The next to appear was the Ukrainian, followed by the pathologist who was a few steps behind. As soon as Phil appeared in his vision, Sherlock swung around and let his elbow crash on a point on his neck. The other man immediately went limp and was about to crash to the floor. Sherlock caught him and dragged him around where he let him fall to the floor with a thump.

He knew that he had delayed the others' reaction by the fraction of a second with his silent approach and hoped this would be efficient enough. As soon as Phil's body hit the floor he heard shuffling and a surprised shout. Everything happened so quickly, and when he'd turned around again he saw John aiming his gun at a baffled Miller. So far, so good. Before the detective could pull his own gun, however, Sergej had pointed his own at him and shouted incomprehensible syllables. Then he turned towards John and did the same.

When he was starting to fling his gun around the room in a very menacing way, pointing at everybody and no one, Sherlock started to worry that the Ukrainian man would panic and shoot. When Sergej started addressing Miller, the consulting detective figured out that the elder doctor did not understand a word of it. An idea formed in the his head.

"Vy dolzhny uspokoitʹsya, Sergej," Sherlock shouted, undoubtedly with the thickest English accent.  _I should really work a little more on my language skills_. Nevertheless, his words had an effect and Sergej turned his head in the detective's direction.

"On lezhit na vas," Sherlock continued.

The Ukrainian looked at him with raised eyebrows, his gun now focussed only on Sherlock. Finally, he reacted. „Chto?"

Sherlock smirked.

_.:0:._

Everything was chaos. John heard running and shouting and hoped so badly that gunshots would not be added to the sounds. When he saw Sherlock swing around the pillar to take down Phil he had pulled the woman from the airline to the floor and out of immediate danger. Then he'd turned and gone straight for the nearest opponent. It was Miller and before the old man could do more than press out a choked shout John had pointed his gun at him, effectively shutting him up.

The Eastern European was another matter. The doctor had thought Sherlock would take him down easily but he was a tiny bit too slow and standing too far away. Thus, Sergej was now hastily waving his gun at him and Sherlock ( _nothing new there_ ). When he started to threaten the other people in the gate, who'd started to panic and hide, John was more worried. The Ukrainian man seemed very agitated and volatile. Still, the doctor did not loosen the grip on his gun.

When Sergej spoke John naturally didn't understand. Neither did Miller. But suddenly he heard Sherlock speak up and, weirdly, didn't understand him either. The Ukrainian, however, did and answered with a single syllable. He was still tense but had at least stopped maniacally waving his weapon.

A huge string of gibberish followed from Sherlock.  _He fucking speaks Ukrainian?_  The detective gestured between Miller, himself and Sergej and appeared to explain something. After about a minute Sergej turned to Miller and looked at him quizzically.

"Eto on govorit pravdu?"

„What? You birdbrained brute! I don't understand a word of it. Do something already!" Miller was becoming furious and a bit scared by Sergej's expression. The other man had slightly lowered his gun and kept talking to him more and more aggressively.

Another sentence from Sherlock and an answer from Sergej and, amazingly, the man laid down his gun and calmly walked over to the consulting detective, spoke a few silent words and let himself be handcuffed. The fleeting thought ' _of course he would also steal the accompanying handcuffs from Lestrade_ ' was quickly pushed away by ' _What the fuck just happened?_ '

"Hey… what? Why-?" Miller sounded desperate and angry and was starting to step forward when John concentrated on him again, gave his gun a shake and barked "I don't think so." The other man froze.

Without letting his eyes leave the old professor, John addressed his flatmate, "Sherlock, how the hell-?"

"I'll explain later," came the answer while he finished cuffing a remarkably more relaxed Sergej. Then, Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialled.

"Yes, Lestrade. It's-. Yes, no worries. We stopped them…Yes, if you would just let me-. Heathrow. Thanks, we'll wait."

Sherlock ended the call and pocketed his phone. John was still staring at Miller not to give the man any chance to get away. But in his peripheral vision his saw his friend's emerging self-satisfied grin. The corners of the doctor's mouth jumped slightly at this.

"So, uh, you speak Ukrainian?"

"Of course not. It's not expedient to learn such a niche language. Russian usually does nicely for basic conversation with any Eastern European person over thirty."

_.:0:._

Molly hated it but Mike had advised her insistently to stay at Bart's overnight. The cut in her thigh was very deep and the doctors wanted to be sure that it wouldn't tear open again – which was very likely if she was to walk too much.

She spent the late afternoon and early evening waiting for some sign from Sherlock or John. She was worried about them and wanted to do something, anything. Wanted to help, even though she was sure that she wouldn't be of much assistance in full health, let alone with a semi-serious injury.

Greg had come shortly after Sherlock had sent the text, the machete safely hidden by then. He didn't know where the consulting detective and his friend had disappeared to and asked her if she knew anything. She told him no and dutifully kept her mouth shut about Sherlock's warning and the machete. After all, it wasn't needed information to find out about his whereabouts or plans.

After Greg had left again to find his missing consulting detective Molly didn't hear from any of them for hours. She wanted to inquire. Call or send a text message to Sherlock or John. But every time she grabbed for her phone she stopped herself. What if they were in the middle of a fight and a ringing phone would distract them. What if they had to hide and were in immediate danger of being found out. Again, a ringing phone was not of help. She imagined various scenarios and in every one of them she was the sole cause of Sherlock and John's violent demise.

_No contacting them. I'll just wait… Everything will be fine. Right?_

Molly didn't sleep. The pills they had given her were laughably ineffective. Her mind was racing and just wouldn't stop.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I'm alive and still writing. I'm deeply ashamed and sorry for not posting anything in so long. But I was punished - this chapter was a real pain in the backside to write, don't know why though... Without further ado, I hope you enjoy it a bit.

John was sitting in his armchair flipping through the menu of his favourite Thai restaurant and thinking about what he was going to order. He would get something for Sherlock as well. His flatmate hadn't eaten properly for a few days and now that the case was finally concluded John would force the consulting detective to have a big meal.

It was almost noon but the air outside was still damp and cold, a heavy fog clouding the streets of the city. John shivered slightly, tightened the grip on his cup of tea and set the menu down. He didn't want to steal Sherlock's well-deserved sleep but he was rather interested in the details of the previous day's chase and following arrest. Also, he was hungry and wanted to have his lunch.

After ordering more than enough for the both of them, John walked over to his Laptop and started a new blog entry. When he was halfway through with his summary of the case the food arrived.

"SHERLOOOOCK. Food."

Half a minute after John's scream had echoed through the flat Sherlock emerged from his room. His hair was a mess and he was yawning. He was wearing old pyjamas that needed a wash.

"I'm not hu-"

"I don't care. You're having lunch with me. There." John had taken his seat on the kitchen table and gestured towards several lovely smelling boxes in front of him.

"Eat. And then tell me what you said to convince Sergej to just give up like that."

Sighing slightly, Sherlock sat down opposite his flatmate. He made sure that his posture screamed 'I'm indulging in something that is beneath me and I only do this because of my copiously cultivated altruism'. John thought he looked like a six-year old refusing to eat spinach.

After Sherlock had practically inhaled a box of fried noodles and stolen two big dumplings from John, he sat back a bit. "Well," he started, "I had registered before that Miller and Sergej obviously did not have a satisfying way of communicating with each other. But only when we were at the airport the importance of this struck me."

After a small pause, in which he scanned the table for what to eat next, Sherlock went on. "With the commotion of the fight and Sergej's uncoordinated screaming," he took a box and smelled it, "I saw that he was unsure of himself and wanted directions from Miller; he asked questions. About the samples, about who – exactly –  _we_  were."

Sherlock shook the box and fished a piece of chicken out of the curry – with his hands.

"Eww, Sherlock-"

"Anyway, Sergej didn't know who we were and he was getting fidgety. I simply told him that Miller had lied to him." He stopped to chew and swallow the chicken and hummed slightly at the taste. "This is my new favourite after-case-food. I said we were from MI6 and that we knew of a deal Miller had with the Americans; that he'd promised their government the samples – along with the gains from marketing future pharmaceuticals. Sergej wasn't pleased. And when I convinced him he'd go prison-free if he helped us against Miller – well, you saw what happened."

John nodded. In Sherlock-terms, this was a remarkably easy and straightforward solution. Somehow he hadn't been expecting that.

*

Molly hadn't slept for the whole night, instead shifting nervously in the uncomfortable hospital bed. At least Mike had sorted it so that she didn't have to share the room with anyone.

Now it was late afternoon, she sat in a wheelchair being pushed down a corridor by a nurse who refused to let her walk. Only when they arrived at the main entrance was she allowed to swap the wheelchair for crutches.  _What a great difference that two hundred more yards of not walking made_ , she thought angrily. The nurse proceeded to tell her for the fifth time that she was not to walk, or generally  _move_ , too much. Molly just nodded along. Despite her efforts to convince Mike otherwise, he had declared that he wouldn't have her back at work for at least two weeks.

Sighing, she slowly and awkwardly climbed into the waiting cab and mumbled her address. She was exhausted but sure that sleep wouldn't come easy. The worries about Sherlock pushed back into her mind constantly. Almost at home, she decided she couldn't kill anyone by calling New Scotland Yard. Maybe she'd be lucky and get Greg on the phone…if he was available. Would his availability be a good or a bad sign?

In the end, it had been easier than she'd thought. The nice man at the front desk immediately confirmed Lestrade's presence at the Yard and after she told him she was a pathologist working on the Miller case he told her to wait a second while he put her through.

Greg had been mildly surprised about her inquiry but told her willingly that the arrests were made without any problems. He'd had to convince his boss not to press charges against Sherlock and John for falsely impersonating members of police staff but that had been easy enough since they had managed to close a pretty huge case.

Molly's first feeling after hanging up was utter relief. By now she had dragged herself up to her flat which was quite a hard task with a heavily bandaged leg, crutches in one and a phone in the other hand. She didn't care about the burning in her wound. The meds were starting to wear thin and now she comprehended for the first time how deep that cut must have been. But the pain was secondary. Sherlock was fine. John was fine. Not only this, they had saved the day!

The second feeling was less welcome, though more familiar. Rejection. Again, her expectations had simply been unrealistic. Why had she thought Sherlock would get in touch? Telling her about the case, telling her if and when he was safe? Maybe even ask how she was? Of course, this wouldn't happen but no matter how often she tried to rationalise she couldn't stop it from hurting her. Yes, Sherlock had saved her and cared for her wellbeing – he wasn't an animal after all and she knew that he at least didn't want her to  _die_. He made sure that she would endure no harm. And that was that. No more was required.

Molly felt so stupid and exposed. She knew that Sherlock was well aware of her feelings for him. But in the last days she had not only silently (and pointlessly) confirmed this with her actions; she had also let him come dangerously close.  _I've cried in front of him. Shit_. The pathologist had only cried in front of a handful of people. And mostly on occasions where crying was a generally accepted and expected reaction – such as the death of a family member. She'd felt no shame in crying at the grave of her father. However, she felt great shame whenever someone else witnessed a moment of emotional weakness and despair. She didn't like sharing those moments. She felt way too vulnerable and naïve then.

The fear that this person - that Sherlock would think less of her if he knew of her emotional shortcomings and frailties. If he saw her coming undone because of something so  _small_  as 'heartbreak' and loneliness…

 _He_ did _see me cry, though._

_Sherlock. Who thinks sentiment is plainly wrong and unnecessary. He'll never even get close to respecting me - or my work - ever again._

How could she ever look him in the eyes again? She'd made such a fool of herself. And she was sure that was the reason Sherlock was avoiding contact with her.

*

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, reading OK! magazine, while John was finishing his blog entry. He'd just been writing about the confrontation with Phil in the morgue and looked up at his flatmate.

"Oh, how is Molly by the way?"

The consulting detective looked up with a bewildered look on his face. "How should I know this?"

John's eyebrows crinkled. "You haven't texted her? Why haven't you told me?"

"Why should I do either?" Sherlock was beginning to get uncomfortable but was not willing to let it show. John was hitting a sore spot with his questions. Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon trying to push Molly into a cupboard of his mind palace. "Are you expecting me to compile a list of everything I'm  _not_  doing for you?"

"Sarcasm isn't the way to go here, Sherlock, and you know it. I thought you would call or text her because she was assisting you greatly in this case and was rather severely hurt during it." The doctor was getting annoyed. "Also – and I'm aware that you probably don't want to hear this but apparently it needs to be spelled out – you have practically been  _pining_  for her lately. And still you keep disappointing her. Even though you will never find anyone as understanding, generous and patient as her. So, if you're not going to finally grow a pair and stand up to what you're feeling you should at least stop manipulating the woman and start treating her with some respect. Both options include letting her know that you're fucking alive and well, and thanking her for her help. In the morgue, she was  _accepting_  sure death – for your case! Don't you think that deserves a text message?"

Without waiting for an answer, John stood up to face his flatmate properly. His imposing posture was intended and fitted the oncoming, or rather  _ongoing_ , rant.

"Molly is a good-looking, intelligent and almost implausibly kind woman. I can only imagine how hard it will be for her to trust someone ever again – after everything Moriarty, this David person, and, yes…  _you_  have put her through. But eventually, she will. I am convinced that a good man who really cares for her will come along. And she will fall in love with him and be happy. She deserves that."

Sherlock looked at John for a stretched moment, neatly folded his magazine, set it on the table and stood. He fixed his flatmate with a cold stare and turned around, taking overly large steps towards his bedroom and entered it. With a loud bang he slammed the door shut.

That was the last John saw of Sherlock for four days.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, me again. Back to writing. Hello and welcome to all the new Sherlollians that have been reading this. Thanks so much! You guilt tricked me into finally getting this story to an end.

Sherlock spent the following two days sulking in his bedroom, only leaving when he'd made sure John wasn't around. He simply denied his thoughts to wander in the direction they wanted to. Instead, he re-visited and re-catalogued his knowledge on bugs; then rocks, then hair growth of dachshunds.  _The colours of a dachshund hair can vary from dark maroon to-_

Molly.

_Mollymollymolly._

_Argh_.

At the end of day two, he needed to sleep. Even though it came as a welcome distraction, he feared his dreams…

And sure enough, he awoke from a vivid dream four hours later. With a  _situation_.

_.:0:._

On day three of his self-prescribed solitary confinement he gave in.

The realisation came suddenly and with a shocking clarity. He wasn't going to be functioning properly again; not if he didn't do something about it. About the Molly thing. So,  _something_  had to be done. Once he allowed himself the thought, it seemed remarkably easy to come up with a plan.

Practical thinker that he was, Sherlock accepted that he had to  _scratch this itch_. He wanted to feel like himself again and, apparently, a step forward was due. Forward… in the direction of his pathologist. He would explain his situation (as dull as explaining was, he had a feeling that some sort of talk was needed), she would ( _of course_ ) be amenable, then they would have sex. Afterwards, he would be done with it and have more processing power to deal with everyday life and cases again.

_Perfect!_

_.:0:._

_No, not like that._

Sherlock found himself unsure of how to approach Molly. And, even more frustratingly, he was unsure of how to  _deal_  with her. In a sexual situation…

So, naturally, he spent day four in his room doing research.

_.:0:._

On a Friday almost two weeks after the conclusion of the case, just after noon, Molly left Bart's, having just had the stitches in her leg taken out. It'd hurt only marginally and she was glad to see that no big ugly scar would remain. By now the former cut was nothing more than a thin red line in the slightly tender flesh of her thigh. Walking was no problem anymore and after the weekend she would start working again. Finally! She was going crazy at home with nothing to do but dwell on her bleak thoughts. Even though she had developed a slightly sunnier outlook on life in general and had managed to stop pitying herself so desperately, she didn't want to be alone anymore.

Of course, she hadn't had any contact with Sherlock. Or rather,  _he_  hadn't instigated any contact with  _her_  and she was sure as hell not going to bother him anymore. Her plans for dealing with him in the future included being friendly and happy when he solved crimes. Nothing more.

During her time at home she had come to the (first bitter, then somewhat freeing) conclusion that she deserved and wanted someone in her life; someone who was willing and able to be with her. She would always have a soft spot for Sherlock, no doubt, but he wasn't going to be that someone and she was strangely fine with it.

She contemplated the start of her 'new' life while queuing in a coffee shop when she heard her name being called. She turned and saw a familiar face.

"Oh, hi John!"

_.:0:._

Sherlock wasn't in the best of moods. Sitting at the kitchen table, he scanned his ongoing experiments, hoping something interesting would catch his eye.

He had been so sure about his plans to go to Molly. Why was he spending day after day hiding in his room, then? After truly extensive amounts of research (magazines, internet forums, porn) it should be easy to just go and do it. He just didn't seem to be able to leave the house and hail a cab. But he wanted to so much.

He heard John coming up the stairs;  _steps slightly quicker than usual_  –  _he's in a good mood._ Sherlock didn't want a happy John around now. Seeing people enjoy life when he was miserable and not even sure why was not acceptable.

When the doctor entered the flat and his face came into view, Sherlock knew it was worse than he'd thought. John was not only happy but  _female-induced happy_.  _Self-satisfied grin and upright posture. Spent afternoon flirting with some girl at the supermarket. Has a date with her some time next week._

"Oi, Captain Miserable! Good to see you out of your room for a change. Want a cup of tea?"

While his flatmate started preparing the cuppa without waiting for his answer, Sherlock turned on his chair, grumpily staring him down.

"I will not listen to it, so don't bother."

"You'll not listen to what?"

"John, please. To the story of you meeting yet another 'woman of your life' at Sainsbury's or the Coffee Shop or wherever. I'm happy that you'll soon be sexually satisfied, really, I just do not want to listen to the grand story behind it all…. Thanks."

"What are you talking about? I didn't meet a woman. I mean, I didn't…, I just..." John paused, pouring water from the kettle in his flatmate's favourite cup, "never mind."

Another pause. Sherlock frowned. Something was off.

John put the cup in front of the detective and quickly turned around, heading for his room.

"What do you mean, you just-?" It was definitely not like John to be secretive around him.

John stopped, not turning around though. "You just said you don't want to hear about my afternoon."

"That has never really stopped you. Also, now I'm curious. And would you rather have me start deducing now and go through your text messages, dirty laundry and emails for the next two weeks? Something is not ordinary. Tell me."

"It's really nothing, Sherlock. You don't want to hear it. And even if you… anyway, it's not even what you think it is, so-"

Sherlock jumped up from his chair, quickly striding over to where his friend still stood between the kitchen and the door to the flat. About two feet were separating them when he inhaled sharply. John turned around.

Sherlock did it again, quicker and harsher.

"What is that smell, John?"

The doctor got fidgety. "I don't know what you mean, I don't smell anything special."

"Lavender. With a tinge of disinfectant." Sherlock's eyes turned to slits.

After a stretched silence, Sherlock took a step back. He stared at his flatmate without showing an emotion.

With a weak voice, John started an explanation. "Like I said, it definitely is not what you think. We just met by chance this afternoon and talked for a bit; but I really don't plan to-"

"You won't."

Sherlock did not care to elaborate. He was sure that John got the barely hidden threat in his venomous voice.

He turned and stiffly walked to his room, quickly changed into one of his suits and came back out to find John still standing where he had left him, looking worried.

"Don't wait for me," was all Sherlock said before he jogged down the stairs. He didn't catch his flatmate's badly concealed grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this. And then another M-rated extra one (will be posted separately). I will tell you where to find it.


End file.
